
Class __/^^f:^^ 
Book ♦ T33 T'^ 



GoRyrigtitN". 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 




A plodding pilgrim in the realm of rhyme, 
A "star struck" singer of this sunny clime, 
An humble private in poetic ranks, 

Now craves your pleasure, and would hail your thanks. 
Grant him at least but room amid the throng 
To pour the passion of his simple song ; 
And still believe though varied be his line 
Sincerely and poetically— thine. 

— The Author. 



iC 



piou Beside 

Me Singing" 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A Book of Verses 



1 « • 



J ' " j'3 i' 



By 
GEORGE F. VIETT 



/ 



P. W. ZIEGLER & CO. 

Philadelphia 

1 



THE LIBRARY OF 

CONSRESS, 
Two Copies Recciveo 

APR. 25 1901 

COPVRiaHT ENTRY 

CLASS CK. XMt Nw. 

ZS'SOS' 

COPY 3. 



T^ia^S 



.X 






Copyrighted October 17. 1900 
GEORGE F. VIETT 



DEDICATED 

A Memorial of the Departing Century, 

A Greeting to the New, 

and 

A Salutation to 

The Illustrious Victorian Age 

Now Drawing to a Close. 



igoo— A. D.— igoi 



"Ne^er 
Was flattery lost on poet's ear; 
A simple race! they waste their toil 
For the vain tribute of a smile." 

— Scott. 

"All other trades demand, verse-makers beg; 
A dedication is a wooden leg." 

— Young. 

"There is a pleasure in poetic pains, 
Which only poets know." 

— Cowper. 

"Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong 
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song." 

—Keats. 

"The Poet's license! — 'tis the fee 
Of earth, and sky, and river 
To him who views them royally. 
To have and hold forever! 

— Saxe. 



▼u 



PREFACE, 



From out the obscurity of a narrow, uncongenial, and 
particularly unpoetical environment is launched this latest 
"Book of Verses," a Httle newcomer which has been the 
subject of many a day dream of promise by its indulgent 
parent. 

Knowing well his limits and therefore disclaiming all 
approach to transcendent quality or world-firing ability, 
the author yet fondly believes that his lines possess in- 
trinsic merit sufficient to commend them to the best liter- 
ary circles, and to the indulgent consideration of the high- 
est critics. For what errors of construction or omission 
may appear, he offers in extenuation the very Hmited edu- 
cation obtained in the face of obstacles well nigh heart 
breaking. 

Then again, leisure and freedom, at least in a degree, 
are necessary to the proper performance of any Hterary 
or artistic work. Opportunity for the perusal of the best 
literature, access to well stocked libraries where lore and 
legend of the past can be absorbed, are likewise indispen- 
sable to serious effort at higher poetical composition. 

All this, unfortunately, has not fallen to the author's 
lot. Affliction added to the pressure of poverty has oper- 
ated to almost strangle talent ere its inspiration could rise. 
Anxiety, not alone for the future, but for the very present 



PREFACE. 

is by no means conducive to success in the field he has 
thus recklessly invaded. But having labored under such 
conditions, having passed the outer sentinels who stand 
guard at the domain of the poets, and produced what is 
here ofifered, gives quiet assurance that a spark of the 
"divine fire" is his portion, that the children of his fancy 
yet unborn will attest it, if the living do not. 

Therefore upon the waters of opportunity is this little 
venture cast, solitary and. friendless, it is true, but in the 
hope that the haven of "Good Will" is not far ofif. 

Were artistic excellence alone aimed at, the author is 
free to confess that there are a few poems in this collec- 
tion which his desire and judgment would have prompted 
him to leave out. He regrets to admit, however, that the 
venture is not altogether one of sentiment, for while senti- 
ment has indeed governed the writing, profit has partly 
prompted the publication, and a book to sell, must have 
some diversity of taste, and must also have quantity as 
well as quality. 

Trusting that this latest ripple upon the great ocean of 
literature may meet with a kind share of the public recog- 
nition and patronage, I remain, faithfully yours, 

GEORGE F. VIETT. 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

In the path of poetical aspiration the ambitious author 
encounters many obstacles, none however more distress- 
ing to the spirit than to suddenly be confronted in cold 
black and white with a sentiment of his own, expressed in 
almost identical language by some poet of the past. On 
more than one occasion has this occurred, and indeed has 
necessitated the discarding of work which the author had 
congratulated himself upon. In producing a volume of 
the description here offered, the patient toiler is beset by 
all the different emotions which soothe, ruffle or cheer 
the soul of humankind. At one moment he is the crea- 
ture of exhilaration and hope, and the next the victim of 
doubt and despair, and the very depth of the latter condi- 
tion is felt upon discovering that some child of his fancy 
is but an adopted one. Not only does he suffer in the 
actual loss sustained, but there comes the haunting 
dread from the bottom of a plagiarism hating heart that 
some of his best thoughts might be but the echo of music 
long since sounded in the temple of memory. But as from 
the vintage of adversity the wine of consolation is oftimes 
distilled, so a balm is found in bitterness, and solace and 
encouragement comes in knowing that the modern Eng- 
lish poet must realize above every other literary aspirant 
the truth of the adage "that there is nothing new under the 
sun." In the dim ages to come, when mankind has ad- 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

vanced to a grandeur of intellect when none will be below 
the level of a Burns or a Bryant, then, and then only, may 
we expect to see some master mind leave his fellows as 
Shakespeare has left us, transcend the Hmits of our pres- 
ent literary solar system, and find another tongue and an- 
other world in which his seraphic fancy may roam. 

Indeed in these days of voluminous writings, when 
every inlet, creek, river and rill has been explored, when 
in the world of literature there remains no virgin forest 
for the ambitious pioneer, it is no little merit to produce 
a poetical work of some magnitude and steer clear of 
encroachment on the preserves of others, a quicksand into 
which the latest comer, for obvious reasons, would be the 
most liable to fall. . 

Promiscuous poaching upon the prose pastures of lit- 
erature often passes unnoticed, but the very nature of 
poetry is such as to emphasize plagiarism. The robber 
of the one has an immense field and a free hand, while the 
poetical plagiarist is confined to a limited and a well guard- 
ed domain wherein his trespassing is doomed sooner or 
later to detection; hence it follows that the path of the 
poet is pregnant with danger, and he needs must be alert 
indeed, to steer his literary craft clear of collision on the 
crowded sea of song. 

Above all things desirous of originality, the author has 
strenuously striven to avoid any such encroachment; if he 
has done so in even the slightest degree, the fault is one of 
poor memory and not one of deliberation. If any credit 
is due him for the little work here presented, he wants the 
full measure of it alone, and undivided, and desires to 
stand or fall by his own guns. 

zii 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

It has been said truthfully that in the matter of giving 
expression to thoug'ht, in the matter of the coinage of the 
mind through the medium of the pen, Shakespeare has 
made beggars of us all; not only did he absorb the past, 
but he anticipated the future; he has thought, and said it 
all; so well indeed, as to leave no room for improvement. 
When one thinks in addition of the many illustrious minds 
who have followed him, the wonder is that there would be 
any adventurous enoug'h to set his little flickering candle 
among their brilliant Hghts. But with the fortitude born 
of poetic fervor the author of this has seen fit to do so, 
and though these remarks may be judged in the nature of 
"much ado about nothing," still, it is with hope, trust and 
trepidation that he leaves his fate in the hands of press, 
public and critics. 

Reverentially and humbly bowing at the shrines of those 
sweet singers who have preceded him, meekly acknowl- 
edging the obligation of their guiding light and confess- 
ing the very humblest his teacher and master, he can only 
hope that none would set him up for comparison along- 
side of their surpassing excellence. 

As to the living poets he says: Gentlemen, I am com- 
paratively young; I have labored handicapped in environ- 
ments where conditions have been not only unhelpful but 
distinctively hostile to artistic ambition. With a bright- 
ened prospect, I may do better, therefore I ask that you 
bear with me, and help temper the cold blast of criticism 
to the shorn scribbler that comes among you. 

GEORGE F. VIETT. 



ziU 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

The Poet's Pilgrimage ig 

Still Waters 30 

Flitting Fancies 32 

When Sets My Sun 38 

Love Contrary 41 

The Tide that Serves 43 

Sunshine To-morrow 45 

No Neglected Burns am 1 46 

Some Fifteen Years Ago 48 

Two 54 

Spring's Lamentation 57 

I and You 59 

A Grievance 60 

Love Transcendent 62 

The Sword and the Gun 63 

The Melody of Springtime 65 

Thou Beside Me Singing. 67 

To a First-born Child 69 

Robert Burns — A Tribute 70 

America 72 

May 75 

Reverie 76 

While All the World Cried Shame! 78 

Recompense 82 

A Summer Memory 83 

The Man with the great Control 86 

Contemplation 91 

Sometimes Think of Me 95 

Sir Thomas Lipton. Salutamus! 96 

XV 



CONTENTS. 

Isle of the Heart's Desire 99 

Shakespeare loi 

Pleasure and Content 105 

Moonlight Madrigal 106 

A Poet's Plaint 107 

At Eventide 109 

A Battle Picture 113 

A minor Chord 115 

To My Sister 117 

Watchman, What of the Night 118 

In Fancy's Realm 120 

He that Aspireth 122 

Fetter Not Thy Soul 124 

Night's Enchantment 126 

The Conquering Hero Comes 128 

The Temple of Mammon 132 

Not Forgotten 134 

End of the Century Eclipse 138 

Seaside Repartee 140 

To the Press of America and England 141 

St. Michael's Bells 142 

Before Death Comes 144 

Under Two Flags 148 

Flitting Fancies 149 

Children of Cain 154 

To a Sympathetic Stranger 159 

Modern Writers and Reviewers 161 

Melancholy's Musings 171 

Love's Admiration 173 

The Rape of the Muse i75 

*The Marriage of Hunger and Thirst" , .- 181 

Dominus Vobiscum 183 



XTi 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE. 

Portrait of the Author Frontispiece. 

"The Hour of the Soul's Sweet Softening" 39 

"What is Thy Sweet Will?" 50 

"Join in to Make the Music of the Soulful Song of Spring"... 55 

"With Thou Beside Me Singing" 74 

"Latest Pilgrim to the Shore of Life's Restless Sea" 79 

"Shed on Him Beauteous Moon Love's Golden Fire" 90 

"The Call! the Onset! the Flash of Busy Steel!" in 

"And the Face of the Waters is Dark and Grim" 130 

"Like Timid Feet on Some Forbidden Pathway" 135 

"Melody Dealing, Heavenward Stealing" 146 

"And They Who once have seen her face" I55 

"Soft Eyes that Soothe My Soul's Unrest" 166 



Zhc poet'0 ipUQttmaQC* 



AN INTRODUCTION. 

Through the land of Solitude, 
O'er the dreaming flowers, 
To the 'Tane of Fancy Free" 
Girt with restful bowers. 

Through vernal ways of Solitude, 
Warm with Heavenly fire; 
Rich in goodly plentitude, 
He found the "Heart's Desire." 



Disqualified by fiat of Fate 
To follow Fashion's flock, 
Lamenting o'er my lonely state 
There came a modest knock 

Upon the door that led outside 
To ways of noise and din, 
I rose — and threw it open wide, 
A lovely Dame walked in! 

Of pensive eye and gracious mien. 
Of stately form divine^ 
Methought that never had I seen 
One of such glance benign. 

19 



20 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 

"Lady pardon me," I said, 
''Wherefore your mystic call, 
My friends are few, none such as you 
E'er grace my humble hall." 

*T come" said she, "with gifts in hand, 
Which you will not refuse, 
I come from an Enchanted Land! 
For know — I am your Muse! 



'The lines upon thy brow doth show 
Much saddened contemplation; 
To change thy state I come, and bring 
A kindlier dispensation. 

Again you'll wade in crystal streams, 
Again you'll roam the wild wood; 
Again you'll dream untainted dreams, 
The dreams of sweetest childhood. 



And like the incense of the morning. 
Like the perfume of the rose; 
Like the day dreams of the dreamer, 
So shall come thy heart's repose. 

And a singer, thou slialt linger 
Where divinest music swells; 
Music that comes dripping, dripping; 
Drop, by drop, from Heavenly wells, 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 21 

And many hearts to music set, 
And many souls to song; 
But thou alone shall voice the strain 
Of all the surging throng. 

Thou shalt read the revelation 
'Tween the lines of nature's lore, 
That this world is but a station 
On the road of ''Evermore." 

I will take thee from the borders 
Of the dreary realm of Death, 
To airy fields of Hght romance; 
Within a single breath. 

I will tune thy soul to music 
Which a Seraph might surprise, 
Lying lighter on thy listening ear 
Than love in lover's eyes. 

Music, which the Maker, 
When the world had made its choice. 
Left us in this pit of darkness 
As remembrance of his voice. 

And sometimes sad the music, 
That in the soul shall sound, 
Sad and soft as tears that fall 
On a baby's tiny mound. 



22 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Yet, thou shalt hear with equal cheer 
What time the earth is riven, 
The deaf'ning boom of the Bell of Doom! 
And the silvery chimes of Heaven. 

The Poet's path is paved with pain, 
And well indeed thou'lt know it; 
But he must falter not, who'd gain 
The "star born" name of "Poet." 

The firmer fortitude that finds 
A way, though barriers loom; 
I give thee, and of many kinds 
Shall be thy garden's bloom. 

A Freelance in the Realm of Rhyme, 
Take my "poetic rage," 
And seek the tourney field of Time, 
With thy light lance of language. 

Metallic strain of baser ore 
The precious ones pollute; 
Thy pen, a wand of aldhemy, 
All potent to transmute. 

I charge thee take Sin's challenge up 
When in thy face 'tis flaunted; 
And though perhaps thou fight alone, 
Fight on! fore'er undaunted. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 23 

"A Poet! Poor misguided youth!" 
Heed little what they name thee; 
Thou'lt dignify thyself and friends, 
And make them proud to claim thee. 

And no black art shall be thy part, 
No trick, or necromancy; 
Thou'lt send abroad with Wisdom's chart 
Bright children of thy fancy. 

Continued though thy toil may be, 
Make no mistake about it, 
The functions of great Destiny 
Were incomplete without it. 

While waging war with weariness. 
Despair may o'er thee creep; 
Ask then the blessed armistice. 
The armistice of **sleep." 

But in thy strife with weariness, 
Fight to the latest breath; 
For know — surrender simply is 
Another name for Death! 

Should proud Contumely bruise thy heart. 
And thy lone spirit fret; 
Know that it is the better part 
To pardon — and forget. 



24 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 

What though the envious should annoy, 
By Malice all directed; 
And claim thy gold full of alloy? 
This too, — must be expected. 

He that seeks the sea's clear depths, 
Cares nought for muddy shallows. 
He that hides no blood stained hands, 
Fears not the gloomy gallows. 

And though the lingering shadows flit, 
You'll read the promise glorious, 
Of brighter day divinelier Ht, 
When Right shall be victorious! 

And this you'll know though earth bestow, 
Neglect, reproach upon thee; 
The chosen few will shed the dew 
That Heaven above wills on thee. 

*'So go, dear Protege of mine, 
And in thy fancy free, 
ril take thy hand, and half divine 
My blessings are," said she. 

And then she left me, this fair dame. 
But always at my yearning 
She comes, and fans the smouldering flame 
That's ever in me burning. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 25 

Therefore I've trod where Poets tread, 
I've felt their joy and sorrow; 
I've searched the blue sky overhead, 
And probed the mystic 'morrow. 

I've wandered ways where few intrude, 
I've read signs deeply hidden; 
I've broke the world's great solitude 
Alone, and all unbidden. 

I've followed where bright Fancy led, 
And much his light did borrow; 
I've learned the lore of "Yesterday" 
"To-day," but not "To-morrow." 

Once at the shrine of Nature I 

Did pray for keener vision; 

And learned with many a heart-felt sigh. 

The best, I had been given. 

I've swirled in whirl of trouble's tide, 
Through the land of Desolation, 
But anon I crossed the harbor wide, 
To the haven — Consolation. 



Tempestuous is the sea of life. 
Lashed 'neath Misfortune's blows; 
But still the tide Serenity, 
Flows by the shore Repose. 



26 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 

I've scratched my name on the gates of Fame, 
As many have done before me; 
But with pass unsigned, and meagre claim, 
I fear the proud Dame will ignore me. 

I've drained of the bitter of desolate creeds, 
That many have sought to prove me; 
But I drink now of One that serves all needs. 
And have no false gods o'er me. 

Wisdom comes with the waning years, 
By heedless youth retarded, 
At last through a vista of trouble and tears, 
She comes to be regarded. 

Pride dwelt some little time with me, 
Would perhaps have Hngered longer. 
But humiliation came, and she 
Found Pride was not the stronger. 

Ambition came, my heart did flame! 
I joined his maddening race; 
But found at last it was too fast 
For my poor cripple's pace. 

Close communion with cross Care, 

At last to us discloses 

The fact, that life, though sometimes fair. 

Is not a bed of roses. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 27 

No stranger though to Joy I've been, 
I've roamed some happy sands; 
I've known the love of kindly kin 
And touch of baby hands. 

Sweet suppliant to the throne of Grace, 
My Loved one went before me. 
And so robbed Death of half his sting, 
Such doth my love assure me. 

Calamity, Remorse, Regret; 
Those nettles in life's garden; 
Must Hne the path of care and fret 
That leads to Land of Pardon. 

Though poverty made me acquaint' 
With pangs of deprivation; 
Yet still I read, though sore and faint, 
'Twas for my soul's salvation. 

And though AffHction's blighting hand 
Is ever to me clinging; 
It serves to open wide my mind 
And set my soul to singing. 

Brimful of sympathy the heart 
That guides the Poet's pen; 
The one who sings the better song, 
Must love his fellow men. 



28 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 

That "God is Love" all things above 
And in this lowly station, 
Attest indeed, and of that truth 
Make wondrous confirmation. 

Sometime, Somewhere, there's recompense, 
And if not "Here," "There" it must be; 
And it shall come, thougii clouds are dense, 
Sometime, Somewhere. 

And whether 'tis the heaving wave. 
Or mankind's ways I scan; 
I find the soul-delight I crave 
In reading God's great plan. 

I read that Justice underlies 
Each path, and part, and portion; 
And that the creed this truth denies 
Was born of Sin's abortion. 

The grasping hand that never gives. 
Must know some restitution; 
The soul that all sin sodden lives 
Must meet with retribution. 

The murderer can never lie 

In peace by his poor victim. 

If this world's court he passes by. 

There's One that will convict him. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 29 

And so good friends, you sought to know 

Why I became a Poet; 

I trust that to your vision keen 

This Httle book will show it. 



Through the Land of Solitude, 
O'er the dreaming flowers; 
To the Fane of Fancy Free, 
Girt with restful bowers. 



Through vernal ways of Solitude, 
Warm with Heavenly fire; 
Rich in goodly plentitude, 
I found the "Heart's Desire." 




30 STILL WATERS. 

STILL WATERS. 



Beyond the clouds the stars are shining, 
Check despair with sturdy will; 
Beneath those waves in fury raging 
Are placid depths, — forever still. 
Sore beset and heavy laden, 
For thy soul there seems no haven; 
The world doth mock at thy distress. 
The heart of man seems merciless. 
But stars still shine beyond the clouds, 
Weary pilgrim mount the hill; 
Thou shalt see stretched out in splendor 
Placid depths, — forever still. 



Pilgrim, Peace! the rainbow's set. 
He will give His loved ones rest; 
From a world of care and fret 
God will call when He thinks best. 
What though life be dark and dreary, 
There is rest for all that weary. 
If righteousness hath been thy guide 
Then is the whole world vain beside. 
Pilgrim, Peace! the rainbow's set 
O'er a world of care and fret. 
God will give His loved ones rest 
When He deemeth it is best. 



STILL WATERS. 31 

Along the path of high endeavor, 
We learn the truths He would instill; 
Beneath the raging conflict ever 
Are God's own depths, — forever still. 
Pilgrim sad! and Pilgrim weary! 
What though life be chill and dreary? 
He that marks the sparrow's fall 
Is Lord of one and Lord of all. 
Keep the path of high endeavor, 
Learn the truths He would instill; 
Beneath the raging conflict ever 
Are placid depths, — forever still. 



The tempest's voice is full of woe, 
Its blast is cold, and drear and chill; 
But 'neath the mantle of the morning 
Are placid depths, — forever still. 
Angry waves would overwhelm. 
But Christ himself is at the helm; 
There's haven for the storm tossed soul. 
From world of shame is won the goal. 
Beyond the tears that ebb and flow, 
Beyond the tempest's voice of woe, 
Is seen the purpose of His will, 
And placid depths, — forever still. 



32 FLITTING FANCIES. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 



A line of disconnected thought on things sentimental, 
satirical, philosophical and humorous; after the style of 
Cowper. 



A cheerful face — not one of woe 
Will find for you as on you go, 
The line of least resistance. 
The road may be both rough and long, 
But laughter interspersed with song 
Will dwarf the distance. 



The crystal stream with flowers decked 
Will not the smile of Heaven reflect 
If stirred the mud below. 
Then wherefore should we stir contention, 
And cause vain turmoil and dissension? 
Perhaps make a friend a foe. 



Time was when hogs content with swill 
Of that alone would take their fill 
Serene in swinedom boarding. 
The modern hog's a different breed 
He know's a flower from a weed, 
And dines according. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 33 

So if you pen some matter bright 
Be sure and get a copyright, 
Or you may loss bemoan. 
Reject with scorn, then without fear 
Some chap will pubHsh your idea 
As substance quite his own. 



Not that I would presume to say 
That I have suffered much this way — 
Yet have upon occasion. 
For some there are who do not shirk 
To steal their neighbor's mental work 
By turning and abrasion. 



''Silence is golden," wrote the sage, 
But fools have lately scanned his page 
And caught his meaning; 
So now to silence they're inclined. 
With tether on their tongues they find 
Convenient screening. 



So all you hear where'er you go 
Is surly "Yes," or snubby "No.'* 
For all the fools are wary. 
With affectation's garb content 
They see no reason to augment 
Their scant vocabulary. 



34 FLITTING FANCIES. 

My aim is high — a shining mark; 

Nor would I choose vocation dark 

To change my poor condition. 

To dignify myself and friends 

By that rare grace which poetry lends, 

Is sure' a chaste ambition. 



I've seen a work of merit pass 
Unheeded, by some pompous ass 
In high position. 

One weakness of this glorious nation, 
Is setting fools above their station; 
A sad condition. 



I've found the educated snob 
Whose envy does his reason rob, 
An oft' vexation; 

He thinks that he has power to ban! 
But never was a foolish man 
More sad' mistaken. 



The age and place we should deplore, 

Where talent tramps from door to door 

For approbation; 

And finds the frequent parvenu 

Inflicting from his narrow view. 

Humiliation. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 35 

When life has been in folly spent, 

Then comes the time we fain repent 

Of folly's consequences. 

There's much we gladly would unlearn 

When sin we face at every turn, 

To grieve our better senses. 



I sometimes muse and fondly dream 

That I might rise to heights supreme! 

Vain inspiration. 

For then anon with soul afret 

I plainly see my limit set 

In humble station. 



But after all I'll vex me not, 

Nor murmur at my destined lot, 

For Fate is unrelenting. 

And fame and gold are things of earth. 

In sin-strewn soil they had their birth. 

Their lack scarce worth lamenting. 



To walk in wisdom's ways aright, 
One needs must trace a shining light 
Unswervingly consistent. 
Athwart the path of high endeavor 
The world's base ideals stand forever 
Presumptuously persistent. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 

Give not your wild and mad acclaim 
To something that is but a name 
*Thout rhyme or reason, 
For sympathy that's fool encased 
Is always sympathy misplaced 
And out of season. 



Pause! and ponder while you pause 
Upon the wisdom in this clause 
From Shakespeare quoted — 
"Brag not, for it must come to pass, 
That every braggart is an ass." 
A truth well noted. 



The false and true make no contact, 

A fact must ever be a fact. 

That's all about it; 

And Truth and Common Sense together 

Are anchors proof for any weather, 

And never doubt it. 



The transient gain a lie may lend 
Avails but little in the end, 
Nor can you claim exemption 
From drafts the Devil draws at sight; 
Hell's credit gets you in a plight 
From which there's no redemption. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 37 

Clear-eyed Truth, a beauteous dame 
Whose glance puts hypocrites to shame, 
Stands ever near us. 
And with the doubting soul she pleads, 
And pours the balm which Conscience needs; 
To soothe and cheer us. 



I often wonder, when I'm dead 

If vandals o'er my grave will tread 

And steal the flowers. 

And what I'll do the winter through 

(When birds are gone and flowers few) 

To pass away the hours. 



Maybe some industrious mole 
Will make a little deeper hole, 
On me intrude. 

Would that he'd come for pity's sake 
With message from my love; to break 
That solitude. 



I know no greater soul delight. 
Than contemplation 'neath the night 
When glows the Milky, Way. 
Tis then desire and soul surcease 
Blend in with God's eternal peace, 
To make me pray. 



38 WHEN SETS MY SUN. 

No doubt you're tired of my lament 

Whereat I very much repent 

And ask reprieve. 

But should you not dislike my rhyme, 

We'll meet again some other time 

By your kind leave. 



WHEN SETS MY SUN. 

The sunset's flush is mellow o'er the earth, 

The glory deepens in the western sky; 

While in the pensive east 

The world of night 

With solemn tread advances. 

Now gentle grasses wave a fond adieu, 

Now soft laments from feathered throats are rung. 

And all the world obeisance makes 

Before the splendid passing 

Of the mig'hty Prince of Day. 

'Tis now the hour of the heart's tranquility. 

The hour of the soul's sweet softening, 

The hour when the Spirit of Omnipotence 

Doth summon to the council 

Of His silent sessions, 

The recreant heart of man. 




The liour of the soul's 

sweet softening. "—/'^z^^ i<^. 



LOVE CONTRARV. 

And as the shadows deepen 

Snd the gentle twilight falls, 

Our willing thoughts prepare a way 

For Memory's feet 

Adown the velvet aisles of retrospect. 

And in this mood I sit and muse 

Upon the ways of Him who maketh no mistakes, 

Who gives no hope without fulfillment, 

Who marks the simple sparrow's fall; 

Who tempers the white hot sword of vengeance 

In the cooling fount of His great mercy. 

Of Whom 'tis writ that He 

Will come to judge the living and the dead. 

'Tis thus J ponder on the prospect 
Which my solitary soul shall see 
When sets my sun — a trembling thing 
In the vast ocean of Eternity. 



LOVE CONTRARY. 

Full long have I loved you 

'Mid pleading and plaint; 

What spirit hath moved you 

My heart to acquaint 

With love sown in gladness, 
With love grown in sadness? 
With love mown in madness! 

Oh! tell me sweet saint? 



LOVE CONTRARY. 

I love and adore thee 
As no tongue can tell; 
Why wilt thou ignore me 
And hurl me to hell? 

Oh, give me one token! 

One promise soft spoken; 

My heart's yet unbroken, 
Oh, ring not its knell. 



Nay! pause love, and ponder 

Upon my lone state; 

The waste I now wander; 

And thou Heaven's gate! 
Within bells are ringing, 
God's angels are singing. 
See — love's key I'm bringing! 

Oh, bid me not wait. 



Light hearts grown heavy. 

Proud heads have bent; 

Heart links have sundered, 

Relent, love, relent! 
Love unrelenting, 
Love unrepenting, 
Love unlamenting; 

Wherefore such intent? 



THE TIDE THAT SERVES. 43 

'Mid dark desolation, 
I turn to thee still 
For love's consolation, 
Its joy and its thrill. 

Love soul refining, 

Heaven divining! 

My love declining — 
What is thy sweet will? 



THE TIDE THAT SERVES. 

"The tide went out — " 
Freighted ships of steam and sail 
Turned willing prows from moor and dale, 
"Went out with the tide." 



The tide went out — 
Some flotsam and jetsam of our days, 
Some driftwood left for other bays, 
Went out with the tide. 

The tide went out — 
The anger pent v/ithin our breast 
No longer at its moorings rest, 
On passion's tide went out. 



44 THE TIDE THAT SERVES. 

The tide went out — 
An aching void with, sadness rings, 
Some sweetness in our Hfe took wings 
Went out with the tide. 



Love's tide went out — 

And with it went the pure intent, 

The sweetness in our nature pent, 

The wealth of soul, the proud head bent, 

Went with Love's tide. 



Life's tide went out — 
And many. of this world were free. 
Some day 'twill serve for you — for me, 
We'll drift out to the shoreless sea — 
When our tide goes out. 



The tide. came in — 

But the harbor is small,, the ocean great 
And some found not the narrow gate, 
Came not in with the tide. 



Love's tide came in — 
And at our feet. its waters fling 
A baby shape, a tiny thing 
Came in upon Love's tide. 



SUNSHINE TO-MORROW. 45 

Life's tide came in — 

But none that runs through raging main 

Will serve to bring us back again. 

To haunt again the path of pain, 

No tide will bring us in. 



SUNSHINE TO-MORROW. 

What though the clouds lower in, threatening array, 
And the journey is rough through a desolate way? 
Keep on! There'll be time yet for rest and for play. 
The sun may be shining to-morrow. 

Thy burden's perhaps heavy, the way may be long, 
But step forward bravely with laughter and song, 
The world makes a way for the steadfast and strong, 
The sun may be shining to-morrow. 

"There's no use repining," my uncle would say, 
"For where there's a will there's always a way, 
And though it is cloudy and raining to-day. 
The sun may be shining to-morrow." 

When fate pulls against you and leaves you forlorn, 
And you ask why in thunder you ever were born. 
Just go to your bed, arise with the dawn 
To find that the bright sun is shining. 



46 NO NEGLECTED BURNS AM I. 

What seems solid gold may be nothing but gilt, 
There's no use lamenting the milk which is spilt, 
If it wasn't for rain the sweet flowers would wilt, 
To-morrow the sun may be shining. 



If rascals should rob you, and proud men should scorn, 
And make your soul bitter, your heart quite forlorn, 
Forget not, my brother, each night has a morn. 
And to-morrow the sun may be shining. 

After Old Song. 



NO "NEGLECTED BURNS" AM I. 

Dedicated to some condescending Norfolk "literary 
lights" ? and a few "patronizing" self-appointed critics. 

Whether it be spoke or writ 
I cannot tolerate the wit 
That seeks to make a cruel hit 

At some poor chap's expense; 
It savors much of venom spit, 

And lack of kindly sense. 



NO NEGLECTED BURNS AM I. 47 

At least as soulful as myself 

I judge my neighbor. Nor his wealth, 

Nor poverty, nor even stealth 

Will serve to change me; 
But when I find him wrapt in self, 

That does estrange me. 



While of my work there may be doubt, 
And while I'm loath my claims to shout; 
I'll let your betters find them out, 

And take appeal 
From judgment of a clumsy lout 

By a great deal. 



No poor "neglected Burns" am I, 
Nor Shakespeare in obscurity; 
And while I'm not 'tis plain to see 

A Milton immature; 
Thou, in a fool's security 

Art set, beyond all cure. 



My worth is past your computation. 
From you I need no consolation. 
Why man! you'd make a reputation 

And doubtless make it pay. 
With stuff that from my compilation 

I've long since thrown away. 



SOME FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. 

At Byron's bays I've no pretense; 
I like to rhyme and rhyme with sense. 
Let merit judge my competence, 

Whate'er my due. 
And let this be my compliments 

To likes o' you. 



SOME FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. 

On meeting an old schoolmate and chum after many 
years, far from early scenes. 

Dear Ned, old boy! I'm glad to see your bright familiar 

face. 
It's like a ray of sunshine in this somewhat dreary place; 
Not many friends of boyhood's days now often cross my 

way, 
And they that do I grieve to say, have little time to stay. 



The years have passed between us, Ned, and you and I 

are men, 
And boyish confidence and hopes we'll never share again; 
But still in retrospection there's a chastened, purer joy, 
So let us talk of days pure gold, that needed no alloy. 




I 



SOME FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. 51 

In that sunny city of the South our childhood's days were 

spent, 
Her waters and her woods about, sweet influence have lent 
To make a golden framing for pale memory's silhouette, 
To soothe the care of later years, the heart ache and the 

fret. 

There's the dear old Bennett public school, what scenes it 

does recall 
With its thousand lusty youngsters who knew us one and 

all; 
For a finer set of teachers you might search the wide 

world o'er; 
But one of them I loved the best, God bless her, is no 

more. 

Remember how with bands galore the soldiers marched 

away 
To celebrate George Washington, and on Palmetto day? 
And what a show the old town made in "Gala Week" the 

first, 
It seemed the very cobble stones their ancient bonds 

would burst. 

And when British guns were booming and St. Michael's 

bells did clash, 
And Charleston's troops in gay array did cut a glittering 

dash; 
We were in the crowd that followed them down to the 

Battery seas. 
To cheer Her Royal Highness off, the sweet Princess 

Louise. 



52 SOME FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. 

Trolley cars! Is that a fact? Why, bless my soul, that's 

news, 
The one mule car was all I knew on streets and avenues; 
They were never in a hurry and along did slowly gHde, 
And only those with leisure could afford to take a ride. 



Methinks the boys of our days, these later times can't 

match. 
They play at little girlish games and cry at every scratch; 
How often, Ned, on summer days, two youngsters, you 

with me 
Have taken our frail open boat just fifteen miles to sea? 



Nor did we count it any task to swim a mile or more, 
And stay all day a-catching fish some dozen miles from 

shore; 
And the ''kid" that couldn't go to mud in twenty feet of 

sea. 
Was not the kind of *'kid" it took to follow you or me. 



But some there were, our dearest chums, most reckless of 
the lot 

Who striving to excel the crowd their prudence quite for- 
got, 



SOME FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. 53 

And many friends of yours and mine — the boys that we 
loved best, 

Beneath the waves round Charleston Bay, have found 
their last, long rest. 



And you were by my side that night — ^the earthquake's 

dreadful hour! 
When old St. Michael's bells were tolled, but not by human 

power. 
When Charleston was in ruins spread, with desolation 

sown; 
That fearful night which in our lives stands out, apart, 

alone. 



But even this brings in a thoug'ht of lighter memory, 
So 'neath the music of sweet bells come walk once more 

with me; 
And tell me to What better cause could I devote my 

rhymes 
Than to the soulful music of old St. Michael's chimes? 



And the girls — the Charleston girls we knew, what boots 

it to repeat. 
They were the fairest ones we've met, and all surpassing 

sweet. 
Like summer ligbt, through emerald boughs, their eyes 

would melt to love; 
Their hearts were Hke the sunny skies that wooed them 

from above. 



54 TWO. 

Good-bye, Ned! and God bless you! To St. Louis did you 

say? 
Oh, yes, Vm sure you'll meet them there, they're all along 

the way; 
For o'er this land from coast to coast, no matter where 

you roam 
You'll find an exiled Charleston boy, to talk of "Home, 

sweet Home." 



Norfolk, Va., August, 1898. 

The above poem was published in the Charleston Eve- 
ning Post with a kind comment, and brought many letters 
from old friends and acquaintances in Charleston and 
elsewhere. 



TWO. 

Two for a bargain or a debt. 
And two to have a *'tete a tete"; 
And odd though lovers often are 
They never can be singular. 

And two to hold each other's hands. 
And two to kiss upon the sands; 
And two events (observe the sense) 
It takes to make a consequence. 



y 







Join in to make the music 
Of the soulful song of spring." — Pa^e 66. 



SPRING'S LAMENTATION. 57 



SPRING'S LAMENTATION. 

Yea, Spring has come! The Hght of golden days 
Is mellow on bright fields and woodland ways; 
And all the world is beauty newly born, 
And every living thing hymns forth in praise. 



The splendor of the garden comes again, 
And springtime floods of sunshine and of rain 
Have lured the rose its blushing leaves to spread, 
While feathered songsters sing their soft refrain. 



One year ago I roamed amid the flowers; 

No thought of grief had I; the golden hours 

Sped on, for she was by my side. 

The soft-eyed girl I loved, 'neath emerald bowers. 



This year alas — the flowers seem to say 
"Why walkest thou alone this joyous way, 
Have not we all returned, your friends of yore? 
We wait Her welcome all the happy day." 



'Why comes she not?" the dainty tulip said, 
"Where has she gone?" quoth robin overhead. 
And from the fullness of my bleeding heart I cried 
"Sweet friends, she whom you loved so well — is dead." 



58 SPRING'S LAMENTATION. 

''And will slie not return?" the roses cried, 
"Our lovely friend, who wandered by your side, 
See! all things come to life again, 
And this gulf Death is surely not so wide." 



'Tis true, the spring with magic rare and free. 
Revives all things "with heavenly alchemy;" 
Touches the dead — they quicken and rejoice 
But does not bring my loved one back to me. 

And Spring's bright flowers in the sunlight wave. 
They deck alike the garden — and the grave; 
The old world's young again, with garlands crowned 
But all is naug^ht without the love I crave. 

And so I cannot in the fire of spring 

The desolation of my sad heart fling; 

I would return just one short year ago. 

Or soul to soul, with my dead love take wing. 

After Rubaiyat. 




I AND YOU. 59 



I AND YOU. 



'Tis a strange world we came to, 
You and I." 



* * * * 



Whence and what this shape of clay? 

Why the load I carry? 

What the purpose of my life 

And wherefore do I tarry? 

Am I some strange and mystic thing 

Of a haunted region? 

Which Fate in fury once did fling 

From some grotesque legion? 

Condemned to know, not knowing why, 

A seeking, suffering thing, called — I. 



And what art thou? Strange circumstance 

That finds thee here before me. 

A creature of some wanton chance 

That carelessly ignores thee. 

A Unit in the Book of Fate, 

Set for some later reckoning. 

Canst thou not see — though blind thy state 

Some phantom finger beckoning 

From some fair shore of better view, 

Where you — shall know the soul of You' 



6o A GRIEVANCE. 

This much we know — we came, we are; 

And though perchance we pass to-morrow, 

We feel some goal is set afar 

Beyond a heaving sea of sorrow. 

A tortured sea by tempests tossed, 

By calms and strangest currents crossed, 

Which ebb and flow with tides of thought 

And strange confusion, madly wrought. 

The sea upon which I and You 

Are drifting, with no land in view. 



A GRIEVANCE. 

YouVe a petulant friend, and you don't serve me right 

Said I to my muse, said I; 
Your visits are short and your coldness does blight, 

Said I to my muse, said I; 
To come with such hurry by day or by night. 
Then leave me disconsolate all of a fright, 
One moment here, the next — out of sight 

It's not at all friendly, said I. 



A GRIEVANCE. 6i 

When sometimes I bungle I think it's a shame, 

Said I to my muse, said I; 
To hint that in body and head I am "lame" 

Said I to my muse, said I. 
And while I consider some "incidents" closed, 
I recall all the confidence in you reposed. 
And feel that you should be more kindly disposed 

Said I to my muse, said I. 



If I venture to murmur you jump up and leave. 

Said I to my muse, said I; 
You call me a dunce and grant no reprieve. 

Said I to my muse, said I. 
To say that "I'm horribly, fearfully slow," 
Because I can't follow your wonderful flow. 
And leave me with pen in my hand, full of woe 

Is not reassuring, said I. 



You're haughty and proud, and you lead me a dance, 

Said I to my muse, said I. 
I would do fairly well if you'd give me a chance, 

Said I to my muse, said I. 
Beware haughty lady! your temper I'll tame, 
ril draw on your love and you'll honor the claim; 
We'll live with your mentor — the Goddess of Fame! 

Sighed I to my muse, sighed I. 



62 LOVE TRANSCENDENT. 



LOVE TRANSCENDENT. 

June may come and go with flowers, 
Summer time may pass away; 
Autumn spread her deepening bowers, 
Changing to a winter's day. 
But Love is ever young and fair; 
Days may come and go Hke flowers. 
Golden tresses of her hair — 
Sweet Love is ever young and fair. 

Press of crowds and stress of trade, 
"The madding throng's ignoble strife," 
Where roses droop their heads and fade 
Lamenting their once purer life. 
But Love is ever young and fair, 
The world may age in vain endeavor; 
Though silvered tresses tinge her hair — 
Sweet Love is ever young and fair. 

Summer lands 'neath summer skies. 
Wild fresh winds and trackless seas; 
The garden where sweet Omar hes; 
Virgin woods and mountain breeze. 
With these Love holds his courtly sway, 
Winds may blow and seas may beat, 
But Love knows every path and way — 
And Love is ever young and fleet. 



THE SWORD AND THE GUN. 

Phantom shapes that come and go, 
Breaking hearts that burst in song; 
Memories of the "Long Ago," 
But all save Love v^ill fade anon. 
For Love is ever young and fair. 
Days may fade in gloom or glory; 
Scented tresses of her hair! 
Sweet Love is ever young and fair. 



THE SWORD AND THE GUN. 

Away with the pratings of peace 'mid a strife 
That burdens the earth with falsehood and shame; 
While hypocrites fatten, and ghouls barter life. 
And harpy and trickster to virtue lay claim. 
The bright flashing steel reflecting the sun. 
The roar of the cannon, the bark of the gun 
Shall chorus, 'til reign of the dastard is done. 

The sword and the rifle were made for the men 
Who lack the keen cunning their fellows to spoil; 
Who hate the fool's mouthings, the hypocrite's pen. 
And commerce which fattens on poverty's toil. 
They are men of the mountains and men of the sea, 
Steadfast of purpose, resolved to die free, 
Oh, true steel! Oh, bright steel! they owe it to thee. 



64 THE SWORD AND THE GUN. 

They chasten the spirit and atone for dark deeds, 
They wash out in crimson the deepest of stain; 
The blood of the lustful brings forth rankest weeds, 
But blood of the hero is as Heaven's own rain 
Which lures out brigfht flowers to cover his grave 
Who died for his freedom and country to save. 
Oh, the gun for the bold — the sword for the brave! 



'Mid din of the battle, 'mid tramp of the host 

Who heed the shrill bugle and answer with zeal; 

The charge of grim heroes who reck not the cost 

Doth all that is noble in mankind reveal. 

So sing we thy praises, oh, gun, and oh, sword; 

Thy virtues we cherish, thy meed we accord; 

Be thou swift in the cause of the right and the Lord. 



Dedicated to the late 'Teace Conference" of the na- 
tions, a travesty in which the Russian Czar took the lead- 
ing part. 




THE MELODY OF SPRINGTIME. 



THE MELODY OF SPRINGTIME. 

The world's all love and beauty 
With its harp attuned to praise, 
And everything beneath the sun 
Joys in his genial rays. 
On the purple plains of morning 
There's delight we can't define, 
In the shimmer of the star light 
Comes a thought that's all divine. 



All nature is enchanted 

And cries out Rejoice! Rejoice! 

And a thousand feathered songsters 

Blend in with happy voice, 

While the rippHng rills are running 

Through their fringed and daisied way, 

Adding melody to music 

Which makes the whole world gay. 



A wandering zephyr sighing 
And reluctant to depart, 
Makes love to all the flowers 
And touches every heart. 



66 THE MELODY OF SPRINGTIME. 

While waving boughs, and insects 
And birds upon the wing 
Join in to make the music 
Of the soulful song of spring. 



And caressing breezes linger 
To kiss the blushing rose, 
While above a feathered singer 
To his mate makes dainty pose. 
And Cupid, wicked Cupid 
Pursues his primrose way, 
With his little bow and arrow 
To seek whom he may slay. 



Oh, this life is sweet in spring time 
When the old world's young again. 
And the heart beats rythmic cadence 
To the ravishing refrain. 
'Tis the great Creator speaking 
In a voice now soft, now strong. 
That sets the soul to music 
And the bursting heart to song. 



THOU BESIDE ME SINGING. 67 

"THOU BESIDE ME SINGING." 

Where songsters in the woods their love notes blend; 
Where distant sails upon the ocean bend; 
'Tis there I would a thoughtful hour spend 
With "thou beside me singing." 



I care not friend the measure of thy purse, 
I simply would thy kindly thoughts immerse 
In this, and find thee in the cadence of my verse 
"Beside me singing." 



So come with me in paths where none intrude, 
And we will break the world's great solitude; 
And gaze on Nature free, and wild, and nude, 
And hear her secret singing. 



Her song alas — of me, takes scant concern. 
And yields you — not the love for which you yearn. 
More pleasing are her charms we sadly learn 
With loved ones near us singing. 



Nor does she in the woodland — on the wave, 
Give lonely hearts the sympathy they crave; 
Her song is merry o'er our best loved gravel 
A discord to Love's singing. 



68 THOU BESIDE ME SINGING. 

Lies Omar there! poor ashes of her fire; 
Within her realm he found no "heart's desire." 
Queer shapes of clay with phantom souls! Such choir 
Can rend' but soulless singing. 



Yes, Nature is a cold dame in the end 
If we alone on her for love depend; 
The better we enjoy what she doth lend 
With friends "beside us singing." 



Stark form, set face, heaped o'er with kindred clay, 
This is the tribute You and I must pay. 
She gives, yes — but, alas! she takes away; 
But there's a higher singing. 



And now beneath the glorious Persian sky. 
Lies he whose fretted clay has long been dry; 
Yet while I pause 'mid Persian flowers to sigh, 
Eternal Truth is singing. 

And brother (or perhaps sweet sister) mine. 
Within this book of verse there's many a line 
Which pleads that we before His great white shrine 
Be found — together singing. 



TO A FIRST-BORN CHILD. 69 



TO A FIRST BORN CHILD. 

From the land of ''Heretofore," 
With not a blush of shame, 
To our home this winter day 
An unclad beggar came. 
Strangest part of all to say — 
This little beggar's come to stay, 
And we could not say her nay; 
For she is not to blame. 



She is not learned in worldly ways, 
Pure and undeflled. 
Nothing cares for blame or praise. 
Modest, sweet and mild. 
Little soul from God above. 
Little suppliant for our love. 
Little angel may she prove; 
Beauteous little child. 

Latest pilgrim to the shore 

Of life's restless sea. 

For this I pray and heaven implore 

That fair thy fate may be. 

And when at last thy race is run. 

The little good thy father's done 

At duty's call from sun to sun; 

May all redound to thee. 



70 ROBERT BURNS— A TRIBUTE. 

Your laugh is music to my heart 

Joyous Httle Blanche! 

Your sigh doth make the tear drops start, 

Plaintive little Blanche. 

"May He from Whom all blessings flow" 

A blessing on my child bestow, 

That she may naught but virtue know; 

Her soul — forever "blanche." 

A prayer that was likewise a prophecy; Born February 
9th, 1900; Died August 25th, 1900. 



ROBERT BURNS— A TRIBUTE. 

Though some may joy 'neath Persian skies 

Where flowers are lush and rich in hue; 

For me a softer garden lies 

'Neath Scotland's sun, and Scottish dew. 

And from a tide of empty dreams 

I turn, to quafif of better streams. 

Tis not that I love that the less, 
But 'tis that I love this the more; 
The Persian flowers I caress, 
But Caledonia's bloom adore. 
And as I tread 'mid heath and ferns, 
My gentle guide is Robert Burns. 



ROBERT BURNS— A TRIBUTE. 71 

The flowers whisper loves own tale, 
Enchantment tips the fields o' rye; 
The rose nods to the nightingale, 
The zephyr breathes an amorous sigh; 
And each delight the heart discerns 
Is dowered with the grace of Burns. 



I seem to hear his magic voice, 
While memories of the past are rife; 
Full well I know while I rejoice. 
The lament of his lonely life; 
The burden of the heart of him. 
The sorrow of the soul of him. 



Love's incense at his shrine I light, 
I share the righteous wrath of him; 
The garden swims before my sight, 
I cheer the proud disdain of him, 
And that swift lance of his keen wit, 
Which slays the hollow hypocrite. 



His dust's abloom! the woodlands ring 

His melodies all but divine! 

Oh, that from my poor clay might spring 

Such wondrous grace as thine 

Sweet "Bobbie" Burns; the world's delight, 

Guard of Truth, and Beauty's Knight. 



^2 AMERICA. 

Wherever Scotchmen bide or stray, 
Thy name must be their fondest token; 
Thy verse a taHsman alway, 
A magic charm fore'er unbroken. 
Would that I could my poor wreath lay 
On Caledonia's noblest clay. 



AMERICA. 

From out the vast expanse of eastern ocean 
In regal splendor mounts the sun once more; 
He beams upon this land in rapt devotion, 
And hails with joy Columbia's happy shore. 



A thousand cities woke beneath his beams, 
The world enchanted smiled beneath his sway; 
And plains and mountains, brooks and mighty streams 
Renewed their homage to the God of Day. 



His journey done, the crimson west adorning. 
Bright sets the sun across Pacific main, 
Reluctant leaves, but that he knows the morning 
Will bring him o'er this happy land again. 







KW 



With thou beside me singing." — Page 6) 



MAY. 75 

MAY. 

A gentle month is the month of May, 

A Httle of heaven that seems to stray 

O'er the wondering old world in its lonely way; 

May, bright, beautiful May. 



A heart-stirring month is the month of May, 
When with little of work and plenty of play 
The heart beats time to rhythmical lay 
Of the music, sweet music of May. 

A gentle girl is my own loved May, 
Much more an angel than earthly clay; 
Cheering my Hfe on its lonely way, 
May, my own sweet May. 

When from stormy waters to some pleasant bay, 
My soul shall be guided through life's weary way, 
May my eyes see a vision, as in rapture I say: 
"Angel, sweet angel May!" 
Norfolk, May, 1898. 

Prose is the cumbrous and often disordered rush of the 
heavy artillery. Poetry is the light infantry of lan- 
guage, marching in rhythmic cadence to its own silver 
voiced music. 



76 REVERIE. 



REVERIE. 



Once more with me, aside, apart, 

Retracing pathways of the heart 

In happier days. What joys, what tears, 

What shadowy host of hopes and fears 

Come trooping at the call? 

From memory's silent hall. 



We know again the trackless seas. 
The virgin woods, the mountain breeze. 
We feel the touch of baby hands. 
We roam once more in foreign lands; 
And like a glimpse of Heaven above 
Comes memory of some maiden's love. 



And sometimes fast, then softly, slow. 
The stream of flitting fancies flow, 
There's prizes that we could not win, 
There's tears for all ''that might have been" 
And mingled with the world's sad sights 
Comes memories of enchanted flights. 



There's bits of lore from fairy land. 
And saddened thoughts of hearts estranged. 
A picture of some ocean shore 
Brings back a face we'll see no more. 



REVERIE. ^^ 



A phantom shape breaks on the view 
Recalling some fond last adieu. 



There's cadence sweet of woodland streams, 
And echoes of dear childhood's dreams, 
There's many a "Poet's golden word," 
And wondrous music we have heard. 
And solitude of sylvan dells. 
And melody of distant bells. 



Ecstatic charm of starry nights 
Full oft has lured from worldly sights 
To gHmpses of a better life, 
And hate of all this foolish strife. 
When all earth's splendor and renown 
Seemed indeed a sorry crown. 



There's mournful tales the wild winds bear, 
Affliction's hand, and want and care. 
And in the sunset's dying glow 
We read ambition's "long ago." 
But hope knows nothing of the past. 
And hope and love will ever last. 



78 WHILE ALL THE WORLD CRIED SHAME. 

"Fancies, fancies, nothing more," 
From the mind's full treasured store; 
Like phantoms come, like shadows go. 
So memory's tide doth ebb and flow. 
From life's early morning breaking 
To the sleep "that knows no waking." 



"WHILE ALL THE WORLD CRIED SHAME!" 

Dedicated to one Charles E. Russell, with the admoni- 
tion that the greatest instigator to great poetry, is Truth. 

"While all the world cries shame, with her vast horde 
She drives this handful to their lone last stand, etc." 

— Chas. E. Russell. 

:k 4i ^ ^ 

An envious world cries shame, but in its heart 

It knows the lie deceitful lips give voice. 

And though wildly in acclaim of "freedom's" part, 

Injustice plain to see is its cold choice. 

Aims a malicious tongue like poisoned dart 

At Her, whose laws enfranchise half mankind; 

Whose banner be it East or be it West 

Marks on the earth a refuge well defined 

For those, by this loud mouthing world oppressed. 




Latest pilgrim to the shore of life's restless SQ&:'—Page 6g. 



WHILE ALL THE WORLD CRIED SHAME. 81 

The painted Jezebels cry shame, and seek 

To cast the stone; and in impotent rage 

Spit venom from the poisoned fangs that reek 

With hate of Her, who in just cause doth wage 

A righteous war 'gainst wrong. What though 'tis weak? 

This Httle Russ' may soon another Czar 

Bring forth to blight and curse that mighty land. 

Where Britain's flag has kept the door ajar 

For all. For this She stands with sword in hand. 



While knaves and fools cry shame, disdainful She 
Pursues her way, nor heeds their praise nor blame. 
Her self set task stern sacrifice may be, 
But such have made fair Britain's glorious fame. 
Have made her flag the star of liberty. 
What though a myriad demons gibe and jeer. 
And seek to stem the tide of human weal; 
Her sons hear well the call — from far and near 
They come, and despots shall their power feel. 

A rabble poet cries shame! This petty thing 
Pleads not that strong men faint, and children moan, 
And w^omen sell their virtue, while greed doth wring 

The blood sweat from the toiler hears no groan! 
But makes the wolf and snake with ven'mous sting 
Cry shame to the lion! Ye gods, have we 
Become akin unto the ape and ass? 
For if a Poet can a Har be. 
E'en this and worse, forsooth, may come to pass. 



82 RECOMPENSE. 



RECOMPENSE. 

Turn, wearied soul, from the world's troubled way, 
Bright set the sun, though sombre the day; 
A token of promise to those who will see, 
Turn from thy sorrow, poor soul, and be free. 

Turn, fainting spirit, from toil and from pain, 
Bent with thy burden on life's narrow lane. 
Blighted affection, hopes long deferred, 
Dregs of despair in thy cup have been stirred. 



Affliction thy portion proud spirit hath been; 
Loneliness, weariness, sorrow, perhaps sin. 
And fortune though courted remains but a name 
Refusing to honor thy pitiful claim. 



But look out from thy soul, let not earth seeing eyes 
Bind thy brow to the ground — to folly that flies. 
Raise eyes to the stars that eternally shine, 
And know that their glory will also be thine. 

From mansions of time — turn to mansions eternal, 
From dead leaves of autumn to spring bright and vernal 
From earth's narrow by-ways which bind thy poor sight 
To realms where thy spirit released, shall delight. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 83 

From ways that are dark, turn to paths that are bright 
With the splendors of God, and His hoHest Hght. 
From all which in mankind is brutal or vile 
Turn thou to the haven no dross can defile. 

There's a joy for each tear which in sorrow is shed; 
And a promise is writ on the face of the dead. 
Soon sorrow and sadness shall cease their soul sway! 
Recompense thou shalt see — ^^at the break of the day. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." 

We sat alone, my love and I 
By the waves so deep and loud; 
Beneath the solemn starry dome 
Where waters glance 'mid dancing foam; 
Far from the noisy crowd. 

Far from the foolish haunts of men, 
Far from the world's sad sights; 
Far from the city's noise and din, 
Far from its sorrow, want and sin, 
And its glaring, garish lights. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 

And as she gazed up in my eyes, 
Her soft hand on me leaning; 
She seemed an angel in disguise, 
Sent from Heaven — pure and wise, 
To show me life's true meaning. 



What are the billows saying, love. 
Why do the sad waves moan? 
Why do the troubled waters sigh 
As to the shore they venture nigh? 
As if they would atone. 



Atone for deeds done in their rage, 

For their maddened fury crave 

A forgiving kiss from the shore face brown. 

Pardon for dead men thrown down 

In wrath, by some angry wave? 



No, no! Of love alone to-nig^ht 

They talk; each wave a wooer is; 

The wild winds kiss each laug'hing face, 

The brown beach is their trysting place; 

They mingle their lives in a wild embrace, 

The stars their silent witness. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 85 

And love will long remember 

That night upon the sands; 

When 'neath the gleam of the moon's pale beam, 

Oh, peaceful, sweet and happy dream — 

We sat with clasped hands. 



The rough wind kissed her beauteous brow 
And played with her silken hair, 
A crown of glory, and my vow 
Was then as surely it is now — 
Meet finish to a fabric rare. 



And as I looked into that heart 
Upon that face so fair; 
'Twas bliss indeed, for I did read 
A promise great, a living creed 
And Hfe's solemn meaning there. 

Sullivan's Island, 1889. 




THE MAN WITH THE GREAT CONTROL. 



THE MAN WITH THE GREAT CONTROL. 



Bovv^ed by the weight of power and wealth, he leans 

Within the shadow of his sunless den. 

A giant in the world's control, 

A dwarf in heart, a very mite in soul. 

Who made him dead to rapture, love and beauty? 

A Thing that hopes but for the vain increase 

Of dross, which he anon must leave. 

A Cerberus whose cursed greed is never satisfied. 

Whose was the hand that seamed this hard set face, 

Who set the eye that views unmoved the bleeding heart, 

Who cast the harsh metallic voice that knows no tone of 

pity? 
What is this Shape which undismayed can hear 
The heaving sigh of the world's great agony? 



Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over nobler men? 

To wield the destiny of human souls. 

To wear the crown of immortality 

Who seeks alone the tinseled crown of Mammon? 

If this be so, sweet Christ have mercy on thy fold! 

This shape that stuns the heart and makes the soul despair 

Is brother to the hungry wolf, the venomous snake. 

And every beast of prey that fats on lust and ravage. 



THE MAN WITH THE GREAT CONTROL. 87 

This Incarnation of material things, this earth-bound Man 
Stands forth the crowning curse, the withering blight 
Of all creation. 



Men, do ye know him? The birds are mute, the roses droop 
Their heads at his approach. Brother to the ox indeed! 
Why This — within the realm of brutes, is greatest Brute 
Of all; tear but the mask and see — he stands revealed 
In all the fury of his naked lust — a hideous Monster. 
A Vision fit to blast the eyes, to dull sweet faith. 
To rack the heart of humankind. And to this Thing 
Oh men, do ye give power, to turn the course 
Of nature's bounty all awry. This Man who in the name 
Of "business," crimes commit whose fearful wrong, cries 
Up to God's white throne for retribution. 



Oh where shall Virtue find a living place, 
With Plenty's horn held fast in hands like this? 
What need for Her with streaming, pleading face 
To seek bright Hope, or ask for Mercy's kiss? 
This tribe would crush her ofif the earth 
And strangle her fair offspring at their birth. 
This Thing that mocks the Savior's sacrifice 
Hates all but that which pampers Pride and Vice. 
This Vampire on the world's supreme distress 
Cares naught for blame, for blessing cares he less. 



88 THE MAN WITH THE GREAT CONTROL. 

Abundant in the blessings of a bounteous God 
A fairer world was ne'er set in the lap of space; 
And seasons spread beneath a pleasant sun 
Bring forth unnumbered joys of bounding life. 
Hill and dale, and ocean's vast expanse 
Produce alike a myriad fairy forms, 
While set round all a countless throng of 
World's majestic, invite profoundest awe. 
But this gross Thing makes all his immolation, 
And sears the earth with fret and desolation. 





Shed on him beauteous moon, 
L/Ove's golden fire." — Page io6. 



CONTEMPLATION. 91 



CONTEMPLATION. 



Like bird that beats against restraining bars 

The soul imprisoned in this suffering clay, 

Poor thing of circumstance and fickle chance, 

Cries out at its probation; 

And while yet a slave 

"To hard Mortality the soul's jailer,'* 

It dreams of all things free. 

And though bowed beneath a load of vexing sorrow, 

Pent in this narrow, empty way of life. 

The higher soul doth make a world 

Quite all its own; 

A world of joy, and peace, and light; 

Wherein, though yet a weary exile, it may roam 

Those confines bright, and vast, and beautiful. 

Within this realm resplendent. 

They that suffer find a surcease sweet, 

And they that weary, find a rest, 

And new pure joy of being. 



And what though I be poor, as poverty reckoned 
In this world of ours? My mind is rich 



92 CONTEMPLATION. 

In things of greater need! 

The stars of Heaven shine as much for me' 

As for the sceptered King. 

The peaceful content of an honest heart 

Is mine, and from the turmoil 

Of the maddening world, 

I turn to things sublime and find 

A glorious promise. 

The ineffable ecstacy and peace of being 



Which dwells with those who contemplate 

In love and reverence 

The solemn splendors of a starry night. 

Are mine, whene'er I choose to tread 

Their crystal depths; 

And in the realms of fancy, far and free. 

My soul delights, and findeth there indeed 

A blessed promise of that peace 

"Which passeth understanding." 



And thus for those who scorn, yet bear 
The petty things of this brief span, 
There is a fount filled to the brim 



CONTEMPLATION. 93 

With purest joy sublime, 

Unmixed with taint of baser uses; 

And to that living stream the wearied soul 

May turn, and cleanse the parching dust and heat 

Of this world's fret and care. 

Nature's portals stand ajar inviting 

All who at her truthful shrine would kneel. 

Behind her mighty laws we know and feel 

The touch of an Almighty hand 

Whose Presence is but veiled by such thin curtain 

That the raptured soul can almost touch 

And draw aside. 



And Death! the. grim and awful terror 

Of those abandoned to the ways of earth, 

Comes to the soul uplifted a genial host, 

Bidding it welcome to its heritage — 

A boundless prospect, in which a thousand worlds 

Shall be but as a city to the earth, 

And a thousand years — a day. 

Armed well to strike, and keeping by command 

That region pure, the Heavenly guards are set; 

The pass word there is "purity," 

The countersign, an honest heart. 



94 CONTEMPLATION. 

What matter brother if thy burden here be heavy, 

And thy sad heart turn sick along the way, 

And none take heed? Tune but thy soul 

To things sublime, and in thy desolation know, 

For every night there is a day, 

And for each tear in sadness shed 

A great, vast sea of sympathy. 




SOMETIMES THINK OF ME. 95 



SOMETIMES THINK OF ME. 



When in thy wanderings 
O'er deep seas afar, 
Lonely thy heart may be 
Think then of me. 



Night on the battle field 
Bright stars their vigil keep, 
Think what the day may see. 
Turn then to me. 



And when the wild winds roar 
Night on a rock bound shore, 
God thy protector be, 
Think then of me. 



When in sad retrospect 
Heart ache and dumb regret. 
Life not what life might be. 
Think then of me. 



Long is the lonely night, 
Sad is the morn so bright. 
Dim my poor aching sight; 
Haste love, to me. 



96 SIR THOMAS LIPTON. SALUTAMUS. 

I am thy guiding star, 
Come back from lands afar, 
Look in thy heart and see 
Image of me. 



SIR THOMAS LIPTON, SALUTAMUS I 



Like Knight of old with "snow white crest' 
On prancing steed and lance in rest. 
He sought with knightly, courtly ways 
The tourney field of modern days. 
His was the joy that warriors know 
When first they meet a worthy foe. 



His steed — a ship that did not lag, 
His banner — grand old England's flag; 
His lance — a towering mast in stays. 
His "Ladye love" — a silver vase. 
And thus he came o'er sea's expanse 
To "Hft" that "chalice of romance." 



SIR THOMAS LIPTON. SALUTAMUS. 97 

The "Ocean Lists" which held this most 
Prized gem, lay off Columbia's coast; 
A *'tilt yard of the sea" ablaze 
With glorious deeds of other days. 
The vase he found in worthy keeping, 
And round its shrine no knight was sleeping. 



Columbia! Shamrock! Ave et Vale! 
White sisters of the towering sail; 
That won and lost the knightly fray 
And trophy of great nation's play. 
The Trophy which for e'er must be 
Blue Ribbon of the bounding sea. 



But though brave Shamrock lost the race, 

There is no doubt about the place 

Sir Thomas holds in Yankee hearts. 

The cheer a ''Loving Cup" imparts 

Is his, filled to the very brim 

With greetings, health and joy to him. 



98 SIR THOMAS UPTON. SALUTAMUS. 

L'envoi .... 

So when in retrospection's aisle 

In after years we rest awhile, 

We'll see these two (through mem'ry's mists) 

Light lances of the ''Ocean Lists." 

We'll hail the gem of memory's store 

Their tilt off fair Columbia's shore. 

In friendship's sunset sea we'll dip 

Our flag, to Knight and Emerald Ship. 



In recognition of his qualities as a gentleman and sports- 
man the citizens of the United States contributed a fund 
for the purpose of presenting Sir Thomas Lipton a testi- 
monial of their regard. A magnificent golden ''Loving 
Cup" suitably engraved was sent to him. The incident in- 
spired the above lines, which the committee in charge 
deemed a "very fit accompaniment" for the Cup. 




ISLE OF THE HEARTS DESIRE. 99 



ISLE OF THE HEART'S DESIRE. 

Beautiful Isle 
Of a beautiful sea, 
Oft my soul wanders 
Enraptured to thee. 

Azure of sky 
Golden of beach, 
Beautiful Island 
So far from my reach. 



Silvered waves glancing 
'Neath moonlight entrancing, 
Thy charms enhancing, 
Isle of the sea. 



Beautiful Isle, 
Verdant thy strand, 
Wooed by the waters 
That beat on thy sand. 



Island enchanted! 
Beauteous gem, 
Queen of the jewels 
In earth's diadem. 

LtrfC. 



100 ISLE OF THE HEART'S DESIRE. 

Dew fed, sun showered, 
Perfumed, embowered. 
Melody dowered 
Isle of the sea! 



Kissed by the south breeze, 
Wooed by the waves; 
Radiant with sunshine. 
My soul for thee craves. 

Some day I will reach thee, 
And wander no more, 
Beautiful Isle 
Of the beckoning shore. 

Chanting thy praises 

I never could tire, 

Beautiful Isle 

Of the sad "Heart's Desire." 




SHAKESPEARE. loi 



SHAKESPEARE. 



There lived a man of such surpassing pen 
That e'en to praise lends grace to lesser men; 
Wherefore my homage prompts, my pen designs 
The passing tribute of these simple lines. 

Not that the measure of my obscure praise 
Could honor him who set the world ablaze; 
I claim but vassal poet's meed, to bring 
A reverent homage to his Poet King. 



Surpassing Shakespeare! Splendid man of yore, 
Whose memory all the best of earth adore; 
Thou livest still by virtue all thine own, 
Thou canst not die while reason holds her throne. 



The lustre of thy sun pales all beside, 
The current of thy thoughts is as a tide 
Wliich knows no ebb, but ever full and strong 
Flows on forever, taking all along. 

"Exceeded by the height of happier men"? 
Ah, no indeed, the old world wonders when 
That soul seraphic shall assume man's shape, 
And e'en the meanest of thy verses drape. 



102 SHAKESPEARE. 

The faintest whisper of thy mighty voice, 
Hath charm to make the thoughtful soul rejoice. 
Like some swift craft that does the fleet forsake, 
Thou leavest all to follow in thy wake. 



Thine undiminished splendor dazzles still, 
Nor will thy genius cease to bind and thrill 
Thy worshippers; for thy eternal fame 
Securely set, burns with undying flame. 



Thou gentlest spirit of our mortal race, 

Who charmed the earth with rare and wondrous grace. 

Impotent pen! that would presume to tell 

Of shining symbols thou hast wrought so well. 



Thou art the rarest heritage of time, 
A relic of the world's full, happy prime; 
The like of which we'll see no more on earth; 
Thou left a goddess barren at thy birth. 



Mightiest master of the realms of thought, 
The wisest of the earth have never sought 
Within thy pages for a text in vain ; 
And so they'll come, and seek, and find again. 



SHAKESPEARE. 103 

Immortal Bard! Eternally in debt 
Are we to thy great treasure house; and yet 
We would not cast aside thy gentle yoke, 
Nor from enchantment of thy spell be woke. 



No depth of thought tliy great soul could not sound : 
In Himalayan heights thy fancy found 
Congenial soil; nor great, nor small ignored. 
Left naught uncompassed, and naught unexplored. 



Before the magic of thy wondrous flame 
A thousand poet's work lies cold and tame. 
Thine own words serve the best for thy adornment 
So thou art still "the world's fresh ornament." 



Immeasurable mastery was thine, 
Thou mad'st a profane tongue all but divine. 
Invincible! Endowed with heavenly grace, 
The splendor of thy light naught can efface. 



Like sun converting from the marshy plain 
Polluted waters into heavenly rain, 
So thy enchanted wand did'st alchemize 
The leaden clod, on golden wings to rise. 



104 SHAKESPEARE. 

Supreme! Transcendant! King of earthly kings, 
How came thee in this world of common things? 
Relenting Fate one day in kindly bent 
Saw Beauty prostrate and sweet Shakespeare sent. 



Oh, England! When is passed thy worldwide sway, 
When armaments and commerce fade away; 
When conquering names seem but a restless dream. 
His name alone, shall make thine own supreme. 



And though the world heeds not this verse of mine, 
I lay it with my love at his great shrine. 
To stand uncovered by his mighty grave 
Is but the fonder privilege I crave. 

A tribute from America. 




PLEASURE AND CONTENT. 105 



PLEASURE AND CONTENT. 

To seek this twain a youth one day 
Set out upon his laughing way, 
And nothing could his ardor stay 
So sure was he the finding. 

Anon — an old man aged and bent 
With furrowed face and strength all spent 
Still sought in vain that wight ''Content," 
And still is seeking. 

To all else blind yon silk set dame 
Called madly on false "Pleasure's" name, 
And fanned slow fires to glowing flame 
To burn before his altar. 

Too soon alas! the fire was cold, 
Too soon, alas! the young grow old; 
Too s'oon alas! the tale is told 
That fires and men make ashes. 

Though wide the world and great its treasure, 
Too poor it is, too mean its measure 
To bribe and hold Content and Pleasure, 
They're phantoms never bridled. 



106 MOONLIGHT MADRIGAL. 



MOONLIGHT MADRIGAL. 

Tell me bright Queen of Heaven, 
Thou shalt my prophet be; 
When to me shall be given 
She whom I long to see? 
Thou art the lover's charm, 
Hear thou my litany; 
Shed down some hopeful balm, 
Unveil my fate to me. 

Chorus (echo). 

Queen of the ebb and flow 
Of the great tides below, 
To his cloyed vision show 
His heart's desire. 
Shed on him beauteous moon 
Love's golden fire. 

Queen of the lover's night 
Hear thou my lone lament, 
Bring to my aching sight, 
Earth born though heaven sent 
Girl, of the pensive mien. 
She of the drooping eyes; 
Thou of the night art Queen, 
Grant me this glad surprise. 



A POET'S PLAINT. 107 



A POET'S PLAINT. 



A poet lived as a poet will 
On a diet of fancy and song; 
With a heart attune to the glow of June, 
And light with the thought that ere long 
The world would listen and perhaps give heed. 
Would nourish a flower instead of a weed; 
For the poet had cherished a beautiful creed, 
And his faith was pure and strong. 

And he toiled along in his lonely way 

As only a poet can, 

And he turned his face to a brighter day, 

With faith in his fellow man. 

He wrote of love and he wrote of beauty. 

He wrote of right, and faith, and duty, 

He wrote of a smiling land of plenty; 

With nothing, his flame to fan. 

But the poet had fallen on evil days. 

As many have done before; 

His lot was cast 'mid barren ways. 

And his heart grew heavy and sore; 

For he reckoned not with the fool's disdain 

And the envy that comes like a bhghting bane. 

So the poet's work was all in vain, 

And they laughed at the rags he wore. 



io8 A POET'S PLAINT. 

And envy sneered and his friends were few, 

And wealth gave its wild acclaim. 

To the pampered clown and the parvenu, 

A story that's often the same. 

And the poet starved as the poet must 

Who sows the wheat and reaps but dust 

So his cheeks grew pale and his pen did rust; 

Forsooth! who was to blame? 



For the world demands in its narrow creed 
That those who would gain its smile, 
Should follow assenting its brutish lead, 
And its sin and its lust beguile. 
But the poet's path lies another way. 
It leads from darkness unto the day 
Where the greater Poet holds His sway. 
Where nothing can defile. 




AT EVENTIDE. 109 

AT EVENTIDE. 
"Now was the day departing." 



Tis sunset and the shadows fling 
The spell of silence o'er us. 

And vesper bells now softly ring, 
And night is all before us. 



And twiliglit's sway is o'er the earth 
In hushed and mellow splendor, 

The children from their romp and mirth 
Seek home and loved ones tender. 



And gathering shades of dark prevail 
To dim day's golden glory, 

The lark yields to the nightingale 
Love's everlasting story. 



Bright hour whose birth is in the West, 
Thou of the Sun's farewell; 

Last jewel of the daytime's crest, 
Thy charm no tongue may tell. 



no AT EVENTIDE. 

Child of the Day King's afterthought, 
Born of the Night Queen's grace; 

Well o'er the world thy magic's wrought, 
Fair is thy beauteous face. 



Soft soulful hour of eventide! 

The earth now consecrating, 
When strife and stress cannot abide, 

For love and peace are mating. 

God's Acre too, lies 'neath thy dew. 
The dead their soul thirst slaking, 

And in their dreams the past review, 
And wait the wondrous waking. 



Sweet twilight hour! when sad ones know 

The heart's humility; 
When Heaven's shining symbols show 

The soul's sublimity. 




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A BATTLE PICTURE. 113 



A BATTLE PICTURE OF THE AFRICAN VELDT. 

The battle light on grim and steadfast faces; 

The martial order set to purpose dire; 
In muster ranged o'er broken barren places 

They wait beneath the fire. 

The call! The onset! The flash of busy steel! 

The dreadful cries of maddened man to man; 
The fearful joy the reddened victor's feel; 

The same blood story since the world began. 

And there in solemn stateliness advancing, 
The glittering masses of the squadrons break 

Upon the scene; the steeds to music prancing 
Indeed a glorious picture make. 

And now they charge ! The cruel lance and sabre 
Strews thick the earth with quivering human clay; 

And yet 'tis writ that we should love our neighbor! 
And still we dare to pray. 

Yet hast ordained, Oh, God! that in the cause of right 
Thy people should wage war, and slay, and kill! 

And here again they stand who wage the ficht 
In Freedom's holy nam.e. They do Thy will. 



114 A BATTLE PICTURE. 

For this the battle's glory, pride and splendor; 

For this the cries of pain racked, dying men. 
For this the life blood which the valiant render; 

For this the tribute of my trembling pen. 



What though some lips must drain the bitter chalice? 

'Tis better that, than wrong sustained by might. 
And Britain's S'ons in pluck and not in maUce 

Will set the wrong aright. 



The battle's o'er. In eyes of brave men lurk 
Tears for the havoc which the hour has wrought. 

And with the contemplation of their handiwork 
There comes— Oh, God!— the afterthought — 

That there — beyond the rage and stress of battle, 
Beyond the confines of the blood stained land; 

The mothers, wives and sisters of these lost ones 
Like pitying angels stand. 




A MINOR CHORD. 115 



A MINOR CHORD. 



Like timid feet on some forbidden pathway, 
I tread the road well worn by happier men; 
And in the fervor of my star struck fancy, 
I search the secret of their wondrous ken. 



Sweet Muse, long have I borne thy burden. 
Upon this all too yielding heart of mine; 
Yet faithful unto death thy ardent lover. 
Therefore my path, the way thou would'st incline. 



Dim in the distance yet within discernment. 
Appears the herald by the seers foretold; 
As eventide but brings those rarer glories, 
Such as the sunset solitudes unfold. 



Prevailing o'er my spirit comes the grieving. 
For the sinful and the sodden ways we choose; 
For blight that's born and bred of vain achieving, 
For all the God like glory which we lose. 



In vain we seek for light where all is darkness. 
In vain we seek to reap where naught was sown; 
In vain we look for lilies in some pasture 
Where tangled weeds and nettles long have grown. 



ii6 A MINOR CHORD. 

Deafened by the din of worldly discord, 
We miss the angel knocking at our door. 
Blinded by the glare of worldly glamor, 
We miss the beacons on the heavenly shore. 



Reluctantly the setting sun is fading, 
But e'er 'his passing grieves 'our ling'ring sight, 
New inspiration fires the silent watcher 
Beneath the softer splendors of the night. 



Divining all the signs premonitory. 
Some seers tread the way that leads to God; 
Upon some aged face of heaven lit glory. 
We read the path the gentle soul has trod 



No human eye may gauge the sun at noontide. 
No man may calm the full and cresting wave; 
No man may stem the progress of the spirit, 
And none deny the signs beyond the grave. 



Intent upon some pursuit of the petty. 
Along the stream of life we slowly glide; 
We hug the river's margin slow and muddy, 
And miss the moment of its mighty tide. 



TO MY SISTER. 117 

For me, some time dear Lord, to voice the music, 
That seeks expression through this shape of clay; 
Some little time, dear Lord, thy lamp a burning. 
To light some pilgrim on the better way. 



TO MY SISTER. 

Fret not, dear heart, full oft' the face 

That wears the glow of pleasure, 

Hides soul that's barred without the grace 

Of virtue's beauteous measure. 

So envy not the laughing face, — 

The robes of yonder dame, 

For better rags with virtue's grace 

Than satin, silks, — and shame. 



Not that I would presume to scan 
My erring sister's ways; 
But virtue by the fiat of man 
Doth earn but scanty praise. 
The hands of vice hold plenty's horn 
Filled up in heaping measure, 
While virtue toils in rags forlorn. 
Her purity her treasure. 



ii8 WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT. 

And pity may be kin to love, 
But love and lust are adverse; 
While judgment is to Him above, 
With sin we need no converse. 
When righteousness is weak and faint 
And vice doth all things win, 
I'd sing of her without the taint 
Of satin, silk — and sin. 

'Tis not I pity shame the less, 

But love chaste virtue more, 

For virtue oft' needs simple dress 

V/hile shame has gold in store. 

And she who toils from night to morn 

With only rags to dress her, 

May never gold or silk adorn 

Unless her God can bless her. 



WATCHMAN,— WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 

Watchman, the night is dark and drear, 
And the wail of the wind is mournful to hear. 
And darkening clouds are gathering near; 
Watchman, — what of the night? 

And the beacon light in the mist grows dim, 
And the face of the waters is dark and grim, 
And the ship is in peril, though staunch and trim: 
Watchman, — what of the night? 



WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT. 119 

Will the light not fail in the perilous hour? 
Is the lamp well set in the lofty tower? 
Will no one shirk, — will no one cower? 
Watchman, — what of the night? 



Will the signal-man flash the warning sign 
That rouses the watchers adown the line? 
To follow the Captain will none decline? 
Watchman, — what of the night? 

Are the Service men ready with line and oar? 
Is the life-boat pointed towards the shore? 
Is the Captain alert by the open door? 
Watchman, — what of the night? 

Will the good ship weather the tempest's blast? 
Will she pass the Cape to the haven at last? 
Will all report Here! when the storm is past? 
Watchman, — what of the night? 

Will the morrow tell of a fight well fought 
When the morning sees what the night has wrought? 
Was his post of duty by each man sought? 
Watchman, — what of the night? 

Cape Henry, Va., Sept. 12, 1900. 



120 IN FANCY'S REALM. 



IN FANCY'S REALM. 



Adown the aisles of retrospect, 

And paths where hope's prized seeds are sown; 

There lies a world where none intrude, 

A wondrous world of solitude 

Called "Fancy's Realm," 'tis all our own. 



Two angels rule this radiant realm, 
Pale "Memory" and rosy "Hope," 
The one guards treasures of the past. 
The other's watch is wide and vast. 
With all creation for her scope. 



The press of crowds and stress of trade, 
"The madding throng's ignoble strife"; 
Herein give place to soul's surcease 
And wondrous calm of perfect peace, 
And gHmpses of a better life. 
And Sorrow, Joy and Love and Fear, 
White pilgrims, find their haven here. 



IN FANCY'S REALM. 121 

Phantom shapes move to and fro 
And seem to find a solace there; 
Strange sad thoughts at sunset^s glow 
Their mournful message bear. 
And many a kindly spoken word; 
And wondrous music we have heard, 
Breaks o'er the fields of fancy. 



Sometimes Remorse, a restless ghost, 
With sad Regret stalks hand in hand; 
And all the heart ache and the fret 
That fringe pale memory's silhouette 
Comes forth to meet them on the strand. 



Anon — to love and joy and light. 

This fairy world is all akin! 

Fades fast before the wondrous sight 

All tears, for that which "might have been." 

'Tis then with hearts that cannot fail 

We mount, and draw aside the veil. 

And find the truth — There is no sin. 



In Fancy's realm the soul is free 
To probe the world's great mystery. 
The mind's discourse of "This and That" 
The piteous plaint of "Rubaiyat," 
Finds answer in this sweet and lone 
Enchanted world, that's all our own. 



122 HE THAT ASPIRETH. 



HE THAT ASPIRETH. 



'But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue." 



'Tis ever the same old story, 

Told 'mid our tears and pain, 

Of the toil that knew no recompense 

And the hazard that knew no gain. 

Of the well meant plans of our hearts and hands, 

Of the flame unfalt'ringly fanned. 

To the work well wrought, 

And the ones we sought. 

Who did not understand. 



'Tis ever the bitter story 

Which the gentle have learned full well, 

Of the reign of vice, and a paradise 

By its tenants turned to a hell. 

Of the venture cast, and the promise past, 

And the soul that was left forlorn ; 

And the sneering scan of the "business" man, 

And the blight of the proud one's scorn. 



HE THAT ASPIRETH. 123 

'Tis ever the same old story, 

Set to our soul's refrain, 

Of the envious fool, and the thieving ghoul. 

And the pompous clown's disdain. 

And the cold surprise of the piercing eyes. 

Of the "leading" man of the town, 

A cad, who thought wise from his gilt disgu's^, 

When he did not know — ^to frown. 

'Tis ever the same old story 

Told 'mid our tears and pain. 

Of the toil that knew no recompense 

And the hazard that knew no gain. 

Of the one who would, and thought he could 

Some smouldering love warmth fan. 

To the vulgar brood who deemed they should 

Decry so "vain" a plan. 

'Tis ever the same sad story 

With melancholy fraught. 

Of they who would teach 

The good within reach. 

And the world that would not be taught. 

Of the wonderful web by fancy wove, 

With its soft, soul set design. 

To the finding our love with its treasure trove, 

But the pearls that were "cast to swine." 

Note: — For the first verse of the above some acknowl- 
edgment is due Mr. KipHng. 



124 FETTER NOT THY SOUL. 



FETTER NOT THY SOUL. 



There appeared in the columns of the N. Y. Journal a 
letter from an underpaid toiler of eighty-'one years of age, 
whose weary old frame cried out for just sufficient to give 
rest to his few remaining days. Finding five thousand 
dollars belonging to his Croesusian employers and re- 
turning the same, for which he received no recompense, 
and being discharged shortly after for incapacity, he wrote 
to ask would he not have been justified in keep ing the 
amount. The singular beauty and sentiment contained in 
the reply of that paper inspired the following lines. 



Tired and worn, bent and grey, 

Sighing for peace and rest; 

An old man stopped in his toil one day 

To ask if it were best 

To toil, and be just, in the pitiless drive 

Which man for his brother doth contrive; 

Or cast ofif his honor and profit derive 

From crime, with its promise of rest? 



FETTER NOT THY SOUL. 125 

The Reply. . . . 

The rest which thou seekest, old man, is near won, 

'Tis born of the peace of the just; 

So chain not thy spirit ere it is begun 

By cravings for gold and its lust. 

Bind not thy soul to the hither-side dark, 

Thou art near to the shore where the Ferryman's bark 

Takes passengers only, while back in the dark 

Their baggage is left, in the dust. 

Pure of heart and free from stain! 
Thou hast lived for four score years? 
How canst thou say thy life's been vain 
Though filled with pain and tears? 
The bursting sobs of souls oppressed, 
The cry of the weary for rest, sweet rest, 
Are answered brother — when. God thinks best, 
Be sure, old man, He hears. 

Steadfast thy face to the hereafter keep. 

Reach back not for crime and for dross; 

When the Dark Angel beckons thy dim eye will sweep 

O'er those who make way to the fosse. 

By the side of thy bundle so meagre and small, 

The murderer's bludgeon, the thieve's cursed spoil, 

Fair Vanity's jewels. Sir Millionaire's all. 

Must be laid, ere the waters they cross. 



126 NIGHT'S ENCHANTMENT. 

And Man with thy miUions, but withered of soul, 
With Gold! for thy watchword, and Business! thy cry; 
Who turns Nature's bounty to pitiless dole 
With keen cunning; and heeds not pale Poverty's sigh. 
Unfetter thy spirit! Raise up earth-bound eyes 
See! Justice the plan of the world underHes; 
Recompense! Retribution! Is writ in the skies, 
Oh Man with thy millions! Make haste to be wise. 



NIGHT'S ENCHANTMENT. 



The daisies and the daffodils, 
A mob of moon-eyed madcaps, 
That line the downs, and fringe the hills, 
And deck the marge the stream laps, 

Are nodding in this gloaming hour. 
And whispering the token 
That night has come, and bird and flower 
Must keep the spell unbroken. 

And now the night puts swift to flight 
Day's remnant that would falter. 
And calls upon all worldly sight 
To bow before her altar. 



NIGHT'S ENCHANTMENT. 127 

Some hand unseen now draws the screen 
That hides the hosts of Heaven 
And lo! a myriad silver Hghts 
To rapture's gaze are given. 



Soft Luna in her youthful prime 
Now crowns the earth with glory, 
Sets all the prose of day to rhyme, 
And well she tells the story. 



The Moon Sprite roves the earth where ways 

Are silvery and golden. 

And with the Nymphs of night she plays 

As in the times of olden. 



And they who once have seen her face 
Strange benisons are granted, 
Are "poets" called, a "moon-struck" race 
Who Hve in lands enchanted. 




128 THE CONQUERING HERO COMES. 



THE CONQUERING HERO COMES! 

From the golden Orient 

A stately ship makes way, 

Her snow white sides are gleaming 

As she parts the salty spray; 

And her crew with joy are beaming 

As they near Manhattan bay. 



And this vessel — hero laden 

From the eastern land, 

Nears at last a welcome haven 

With Dewey in command. 

And the land is proud to meet him. 

Proud to clasp his hand and greet him, 

Proud to weave his wreath, and seat him 

High on Glory's stand. 



And the trim Olympia speeding 

Straight as Cupid's dart. 

Little recks that love is leading 

To our bursting heart. 

Gallant Dewey! how we love him, 

And there's none we place above him, 

Eagerly we wait to prove him 

Chief! of every heart, 



THE CONQUERING HERO COMES. 13] 

Victorious ! Towards the West 

Comes the Conqueror avowed; 

To the fane of Fame addressed, 

And his countrymen are proud; 

Proud to know the land which bore him, 

Places no one else before him, 

Proud there's none that can ignore him. 

When the haughtiest he bowed. 

Dewey's name will shine resplendent 

In the after years, 

Song and poetry be attendant. 

Now — our love and cheers 

For him who fought his country's fight. 

And fought for justice and for right, 

And fought against dishonor's blight 

Cast 'mid grief and tears. 

L'envoi. ... 

So may our flag ne'er lack defender 

While the world will last; 

May heroes haste their Hves to tender 

At the foreign blast. 

When Freedom's fiat foes ignore, 

God grant that from Columbia's shore 

Another Dewey — bold in war. 

Shall spring before his mast. 

August 18, 1899. 



132 THE TEMPLE OF MAMMON. 

THE TEMPLE OF MAMMON. 
To a ''leading" bank. 

The Temple of Mammon is set on the highway, 

Its steps are of marble, its aspect is bold; 

And wide though its entrance, and easy of access, 

A sinister challenge its portals enfold. 

For this is the Temple, the awe 'spiring Temple, 

The wonderful Temple of Gold. 



And Envy and Pride, and Lust and Greed 

Are visitors welcome here, 

And they swear by a mystic golden creed 

As they quaff of the golden cheer; 

The heartless creed, the soul stunting creed, 

The creed that knows never a tear. 



And here is the acme of hopes that join 

And wed us, to tears and moans; 

And I hear 'mid the cadence of clinking coin, 

The rattle of dead men's bones ; 

The horrible rattle! The soul shaking rattle! 

The rattle of dead men's bones! 



THE TEMPLE OF MAMMOK. 133 

Pale is the face and set are the lips 

Of the man who bends over the page; 

And deft are the fingers, and keen is the eye 

Of the one in the brass bound cage; 

The gold-girt man; the brass-bound man; 

The intensely keen man, of the cage. 



And the president sits, like the vulture, that flits 

O'er the field when the battle is won; 

And he "gathers the gear" of. his golden cheer. 

When the stress of the work day is done; 

The "settlement" day, the "mortgage due" day; 

The day that the Banking House won. 



Oh, the Temple of Mammon was reared by the men 

Who cherish the "golden creed"; 

Of the "rule" they care naught, and the world they have 

taught. 
To follow their "financial" lead; 
So ^reat is the Temple! And rich is the Temple! 
The soul slaying Temple of Greed! 



To have and to hold is the story that's told. 

By the lights burning bright in the day; 

So they skim of the shift — of the golden drift, 

As they follow its glittering way. 

And this is the story, the very old story, 

The story of metal and clay. 



/34 NOT FORGOTTEN. 



NOT FORGOTTEN. 



"O friends! forget not, as you laugh and play, 
Some that were laughing with you yesterday." 

— Rubaiyat. 



Say not that we forget them, 
The dear familiar faces; 
Their thousand acts of kindness 
And their sweet and loving ways. 
A sister's earnest sympathy, 
A mother's fond embraces, 
And the sunny smiles of welcome 
Which we knew in happier days. 



They're gone but not forgotten 

Are our friends of yesterday; 

We remember them in sorrow. 

Full often in our play. 

And the heart must cease its throbbing. 

And the mind must leave its throne. 

Ere it cease to make its pilgrimage 

Tq their resting place so lone, 




Like timid feet on some forbidden pathway."— Pc^^^ 6 //j. 



NOT FORGOTTEN. 137 

*Mid the busy hives of human Hfe, 
The marts of trade, — the street, 
Places that. once knew them, 
'Tis there we often meet. 
And sometimes a simple saying 
Comes when we least expect. 
To send our thoughts a straying 
Down the aisles of retrospect. 



I remember an inscription 
That is 'graved upon a stone: 
"Stranger pause and ponder 
As you pass this way so lone; 
For once I was as you are now, 
As I am, — you will be. 
So, stranger, well prepare thyself 
For death, — and follow me. 



Oh, ye blessed lost and loved ones 
Who will nevermore return. 
For your gentle hearts and faces 
Our hearts do often yearn. 
And we turn the yielding pages 
Of the love we have in store, 
And feel resigned when there we find 
"Not dead, but gone before." 



138 END OF THE CENTURY ECLIPSE. 

The inscription above referred to appears in an old Eng- 
lish church yard and reads: 

"Stranger, stop, as you pass by; 
As you are now so once was I, 
As I am now so you will be. 
Prepare for death — and follow me." 

Some irreverent wag added beneath: 

"To follow you I'm not content 
Until I know which way you went." 



END OF THE CENTURY ECLIPSE. 

From out the grey expanse of eastern ocean 

In regal splendor mounts the sun once more. 

The willing world renews her ancient homage, 

All nature springs to meet him and adore. 

A thousand cities wake beneath his beams, 

The world enchanted smiles beneath his sway; 

And plains and mountains, brooks and mighty streams 

Renew their fealty to the god of day. 

But lately risen in such full and glorious majesty. 
What shape is that intrudes athwart his path? 
What tarnish mars the glory of his visage 
And dims the splendor of his sovereign smile? 
Spreading a gathering pall as of the night 
That with rapacious clasp enthralls 
The land, the sea, the air, the light. 



END OF THE CENTURY ECLIPSE. 139 

And even as inquiring eyes are raised 

The shadow deepens and the darkness comes. 

Before the onrush of dissembhng night 

The day is fast departing. 

Or can it be that from a world of shame 

The servant of Omnipotence doth hide his face? 

The silent combat rages — the foe prevails, 

And now his conquest is complete! 

To bind the frightful victory 

See where the darkened cavalry advance 

From out the west! Silent as doom, 

Swift as the pinions of imagination. 

The mighty shadow rushes down 

Upon a trembling world. 

The sovereign lord of life and light constrained, 

Now leaves his offspring to a sunless fate. 

And lo! a world transformed! 

A world of darkness and of chill, 

A trembling pit of funereal gloom. 

The ribald jest is hushed. 

The foolish tongue is stilled. 

The vicious and the sinful stand abashed 

Before this lesser frown of God. 

Eyes which long had sought 

Down in the dust, a coin, look up 

And marvel with a quaking heart. 

The multitudes are mute 

As with uplifted face they read the sign 

That God is Lord of all. 



140 SEASIDE REPARTEE. 

And when this shadow of a false night fell, 

A vision in that startled minute crushed 

Of that dread day to come 

When God shall search the souls of men. 

Sordid minds and stunted hearts 

From out the by-ways of a narrow life 

For once look up, and even as they look 

The frown is Hfted. Like token of forgiveness 

Breaks out the splendor of his smile once more; 

A sign to some who read, that darkened deeds 

Can hold but short and transient sway; 

And emblem of the prospect 

Which the virtuous soul shall see 

When death himself withdraws the veil. 

Norfolk, Va., May 28, 1900. 



SEASIDE REPARTEE. 

And the Land looked down on the ocean 
And said ''It is plain to me 
That you're simply a wide depression 
Of myself, and they call you the Sea. 
So in vain is your bluster and blowing 
And your pounding upon my strand. 
For no matter how deep 
Your tides may sweep 
They rest at last upon land. 



TO THE PRESS OF AMERICA AND ENGLAND. 141 

And the Sea smiled up at his brother 

With the smile of the one who knows best, 

And he said "Though I'm a depression, 

Such jokes make me most depressed. 

And 'tis only a slight elevation 

Keeps part of you out of my flood, 

Were it not for that 

I think it is pat 

That your name at its best — would be "Mud." 

Cape Henry, Va. 

TO THE PRESS OF AMERICA AND ENGLAND 
A NEW CENTURY GREETING! 

Bright beacon lights of Liberty 
Firm set on Freedom's shore; 
Brave outer guards of human weal, 
Who can thy worth ignore? 

Thy serial ranks formidable 
Break on the world's great stage, 
And mightier far than hosts of war 
The might of thy printed page. 



142 ST. MICHAEL'S BELLS. 

Great silent ones of graven thought! 
We bless thy goodly sway. 
Before thee powers of evil pale 
And fade in fright away. 



All hail the might of "black and white"! 
That prompts our joy or tears; 
Here's wishing you a larger hfe 
In the coming ''hundred years"! 



ST. MICHAEL'S BELLS. 

Welcome as answer to some earnest prayer, 
In memory's temple breaks melody rare 

From bells of the saintly name, 

Bells of the ancient fame. 

Bells of the stately dame 

Charleston, the fair. 

And the heart beats in cadence to mem'ry's refrain, 
And bells of St. Michael's I hear thee again 

Melody dealing, 

Heavenward stealing. 

For souls appealing! 

Appeal not in vain. 



ST. MICHAEL'S BELLS. I43 

Waking still Sabbaths with soft melody, 
Tuning heart strings to their sweet harmony, 

Soul incense flinging, 

Balm in their ringing, 

Plaintively singing 

To sad souls of men. 



Chimes of the chaste church which rears o'er the sod 
A shrine where sweet Faith holds communion with God; 

Long may thy music rare 

Burst on the amor'us air 

Eager to waft thy prayer 

Up, up, to God. 

In dreams now I hear them yet, seeming to say 
Return thou again to thy childhood's sweet day; 

For false is the seeming. 

And vain is the scheming. 

And idle the dreaming 

On Vanity's way. 

Plaintive thy melody, sad is thy song, 

Pleading the cause of the right 'mid the wrong; 

Tolling in sadness. 

Pealing in gladness. 

Clashing in madness, 

While years speed along. 



144 BEFORE DEATH COMES. 

Bells of that summer land kissing the sea, 
Often in dreams comes thy music to me; 
Bearing a message from days that were bright 
With pictures of hope that have passed. 



The story of St. Michael's Church and its famous 
chimes antedates the history of this country as an inde- 
pendent nation. These sweet bells, apart and aside from 
their romantic and remarkable record, have a charm 
which belongs to them alone, and the average Charleston- 
ian never fully appreciates their worth and pure melody 
until he hears the so-called chimes of other American 
cities. Travelers indeed assert that they are unsurpassed 
by any of the famous bells of the old world. 



BEFORE DEATH COMES. 

Because the darkness gathers nigh, 
And vice and sin hold deadly sway; 
Forget not — "all that live must die." 
Must face the light of God's own day. 
Thy prayer at rise or set of sun 
From contrite heart, "Thy will be done." 




Melody dealing, Heavenward stealing." — Page jp. 



BEFORE DEATH COMES. 147 

He that marks the dumb brute's pain, 

Will heed our lone despairing cry; 

Righteous tears fall not in vain, 

In Heaven is heard the mourner's sigh. 

He that heeds the sparrow's fall 

Is Lord of one and Lord of all. 



And He will bless. Make no mistake 
The bread that ye in mercy share, 
The heart ye "bear for pity's sake, 
The rags ye now for virtue wear. 
A portion in His love to claim 
For cross ye bear in His dear name. 



Thou that nailed the door of conscience, 
From thy heart barred out remorse. 
Thou shalt know when thou art torn hence. 
What thy gain — and what thy loss. 
Thou shalt reap as thou hast sown. 
That harvest will be all thine own. 



Is restitution in thy power, 

What restoration canst thou make? 

Or thinkest thou to wait the hour 

When 3eath shall thy dull conscience wake? 

Too late! At last thy gold will fail 

When from his face Death draws the veil. 



148 UNDER TWO FLAGS. 



''UNDER TWO FLAGS." 

Britannia in her mighty morning 
Chose cross set flag of triple hue; 
Columbia chose for her adorning 
The white starred one of red and blue. 
Renown and Glory smiled on each, 
And Hope is ever in our reach, 
And Freedom never fears, 
While floats the Flag of the Century, 
And the one of the Thousand Years. 



And while they hold secure their sway, 
The race must tread a better way 
To the goal of better men. 
So good, indeed, are these flags to see, 
The one in its pride of a Century, 
And the one with the pride of Ten. 




FLITTING FANCIES. 149 

FLITTING FANCIES. 

A desultory discourse on diverse subjects, continued. 



I often wonder, sometimes fret 
At bounds that seem eternal set 
To keep us under. 
Why should yon man of little soul 
The best things of the earth control? 
I often wonder. 



Give me the man whose soul aspires 
To better things; who sometimes fires 
With righteous indignation. 
It does me good to note the grace 
That beams about his honest face 
Amid contamination. 



The world is wide, but not all free 
As you may very plainly see 
By observation. 
Only 'neath the flag of stars 
Only 'neath St. George's bars 
Is Freedom's station. 



150 FLITTING FANCIES. 

Here to-day, to-morrow gone! 
How vain then 'tis to sit forlorn 
And trouble borrow. 
Joy while you may, too soon may come 
The admonition — drear and dumb 
"Worm's meat to-morrow." 



The secret of "poetic pains'' 

The dictionary's lore contains, 

And here's the test; 

The words are there to pick and choose, 

Take simply those you want to use 

And leave the rest. 



So get Friend Webster's dictionary, 

A quire or so of stationery, 

And ere you have begun 

Your Muse will come down from the skies, 

And very soon to your surprise, 

You'll find your poem done. 



Misfortune lurking in the gloom, 
Awaits our coming sure as doom; 
In vain we turn to flee; 
We cannot pass nor yet return 
Until the price we sadly learn 
And pay Misfortune's fee. 



FLITTING FANCIES. 151 

A little further on we find 

A watcher of a similar kind 

Indeed a close relation. 

He stands and bars our further way, 

Nor may we pass until we pay 

Some toll to Tribulation. 



Then picking up our heavy load, 

With saddened hearts we take our road 

And tread indeed despairing; 

Until there at the parting ways 

Good Fortune stands, before our gaze 

A smile of welcome wearing. 



Great sisters of the western world! 
With banners to the winds unfurled; 
In modern progress dressed. 
Ye have not met the Spoiler dire! 
Not all have been tried in the fire 
And stood its searching test. 



The Earthquake's devastating path; 

The stress of War, the Storm-king's wrath. 

Tried one of you in vain! 

Serenely set by summer seas, 

With ensign still flung to the breeze, 

Lo! Charleston! free of stain. 



152 FLITTING FANCIES. 

Above the blows of careless Chance, 
Surmounting unkind Circumstance, 
Steming their endeavor; 
Superior to the fiat of Fate; 
Reposeful in her fair estate, 
May she live forever. 



The wealth of bHss in lover's kiss, 
Makes beggars all of those who miss 
That inspiration. 
It holds a charm quite all its own 
Of which no counterfeit is known, 
No imitation. 



How pleasing 'tis to sometimes feel 
That in this world of woe and weal 
Some few may understand us. 
If 'twere not so we could not know, 
Nor yet discern a friend from foe 
Nor where their ire might land us. 



This gentle beast so full of love 

They say no portion has above! 

I understand it not. 

Though sanctioned not by priest or pope 

I hold it is no wanton hope 

That it may share my lot. 



FLITTING FANCIES. i53 

Yon toiling, weary, meek eyed brute, 
May mask some human soul held mute 
By heavenly dispensation. 
Some idle wench, some lady fair 
Some erstwhile haughty millionaire 
In stern and hard probation. 



Disdainful of my humble verse 

I see my critic cold and terse, 

Pick flaws and slips. 

But of all tasks— I do surmize 

The easiest is to criticise, 

By pen or lips. 



And envy is a thing that's prone 
To seek for faults and faults alone, 
All else ignoring. 
To see the good, the fair intent. 
The soul that is to kindness bent 
Needs no imploring. 



Nay! Tell me not my knowing friend, 
That poets number to the end 
Their days in destitution? 
The offerings of the heart, the mind, 
Though scattered far to every wind 
Will find some restitution. 



IS4 CHILDREN OF CAIN. 

Much indeed my soul doth yearn 

To gather knowledge, and to learn 

At wisdom's invitation. 

Oh, that I might from want be free! 

To rise above obscurity; 

What happy consummation. 



The rabble's praise is easy won, 

A ribald jest, a stupid pun 

Will gain their acclamation. 

Whate'er the work my pen has wrought, 

It brings content to know I sought 

The better approbation. 



CHILDREN OF CAIN. 

Oh, Man! beneath thy baneful sway, 

All blessings have been turned 

To curses; while on nature's face 

Thy hellish brands are burned. 

Oh grotesque Brute! dare thou to tell 

Self flattering — that there is no hell? 




And they who once have seen her face, 
Strange benisons are granted." — Page I2j. 



CHILDREN OF CAIN. 157 

Vain of what thou should'st deplore, 
Puffed up in thy petty pride, 
Content on a barren shore 
When Heaven's gates are open wide. 
Oh, Man, without the saving grace 
Thou art a sore on Nature's face. 



In wanton sport, for fashion's freak 
Thy cruel gun makes deadly sting; 
A song bird decked in plumage rare 
Falls a mangled, quivering thing. 
But Death himself hath tipped his dart 
With bitter poison for thy heart. 



But coward Man! Thou never can 
The larger of God's creatures face. 
Unless with murderous weapons armed 
In some secure and ambushed place. 
Thy vaunted courage to a gasp 
Doth turn, within the Leopard's grasp. 



The best use which thy hellish bolts 
Are ever made to work 
Is when they're turned against thy kind; 
'Tis then thou should'st not shirk 
To slay and maim with all thy might 
For earth breathes easier at the sight. 



158 CHILDREN OF CAIN. 

Pathetic, famished creatures toil 
Beneath thy cruel curse and blow, 
That thou may'st reap ungodly spoil; 
Their groans fill all the earth below. 
But even now God's bolt is sped 
That shall break on thy cursed head. 



The swiftest flight thy engines make 
The eagle's wing doth flout it. 
And all thy bluster and thy brag 
He moves serene without it. 
And dwells aloft in soHtude, 
Above thee and thy bragging brood. 



On carcasses of lesser beasts 

Thou gorgest, 'till thou art revealed 

In fury of thy naked lust 

A hideous monster, unconcealed. 

A realm of brutes this earthly ball, 

But thou art greatest brute of all. 



Wealth from slaughter, wealth from spoil 
Wooing gain that brings a curse; 
Wrung from wretched slaves of toil. 
And Business! masks thy deed perverse. 
Oh, Business! "name that's known well 
In the dark lexicon of Hell." 



TO A SYMPATHETIC STRANGER. 159 

To stem thy sin and lustful thirst, 
And swerve thee from thy quick return 
To Hell, from whence thou came at first, 
The Lord hath set some lights to burn. 
Masked in thy shape some angels dwell 
The only bar 'twixt thee and Hell. 

And though some heed, the many spurn 
The patient few, who stand within 
His grace, and keep His lamps to burn 
Against the blasts of vice and sin. 
The patient few who constant grieve 
For thou. Hell's dreadful gift to Eve. 



TO A SYMPATHETIC STRANGER. 

Being an answer to a condolence in verse, 

What more could touch a poet's heart, 
Or quicker make the tear drops start 
Than sympathy by Muse's art 

Expressed in verse? 
E'en though their burden bears a smart 

As I rehearse. 

Your sentiment of "Love's Bouquet" 
Will touch my heart for many a day, 
No matter where I bide or stray; 

'Twill be impressed 
The bud the angels bore away 

We loved the best. 



i6o TO A SYMPATHETIC STRANGER. 

And so, my gentle unknown friend, 
I feel the healing balm you lend. 
And would some pleasant hour spend 

To listen to thy creed. 
Until that time, these lines I send 

To thank you well indeed. 



The sea of turmoil, tide of tears, 
Breaks madly o'er our hopes and fears: 
Sad, sad the mystery appears. 

For light we crave, 
But little comes; and httle cheers 

O'er some loved grave. 



Yet do we cherish in our souls. 
Despite of tribulation's tolls. 
That Hfe is but the tide which rolls 

On some serene To-morrow; 
The tide which God-directed rolls, 

On some divinelier 'morrow. 



God bless you friend who blessed my child, 
May life for you be sweet and mild; 
And may my darling undefiled 

Meet us upon that shore. 
Beyond life's ocean rough and wild, 

Where pilgrims part no more. 



MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. i6i 



MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 



"The age culls simples 
With a broad clown's back turned broadly 
To the glory of the stars." 



Mount of Parnassus! Poet's mystic soil, 
Whereof we dream, wherefore we ply our toil; 
Thy groves are ravaged, and thy Muse's hymn 
To tatters torn by the vandal's vim. 
And noxious weeds are with thy flowers entwined, 
Thy peaceful pathways to the mob consigned; 
Thy temple's tainted with pollution's touch, 
It's shining symbols in the caitiff's clutch. 
The mandate that would rout this raucous band 
Must bear the imprint of a master hand; 
But where is he! who shall the challenge shout 
To put this mob to ignominious rout ? 

Columbia! Sweet bride of Liberty, 
I would not give one needless pang to thee; 
But thou must sorrow for those golden days. 
When matchless prose blent with thy poet's praise. 
When Bryant built his fame on beauty's base, 
And Irving charmed our world wide Saxon race. 
When Webster from a giant trophies rung, 
And o'er the land his flashing brilliance flung. 
And Paine, that shining light of Freedom's lover. 



i62 MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 

Dealt kings a blow from which they'll ne'er recover. 

Susceptive Poe, who shrank at blockhead's rant, 

To Ingersoll who braved the hosts of cant. 

All gone, alas! and in the land they graced, 

The gentle Muses by a wild mob chased; 

The scribblers charging with their vain alarms. 

Make empty kitchens and neglected farms. 

Upon the right a howling host of "lyrics,'^ 

And on the left a mob of morbid "critics"; 

And 'tween these ranks a fearful gazing few, 

Who know not where to turn, nor what to do. 

'Mid printing presses, paper mills and ink, 

The poor untutored remnant scarce can think. 

Negro "poets" annihilate the tongue. 

And rhyme their cake walks where Longfellow sung. 

And bruiser Jeffries treads my Shakespeare's stage. 

With strenuous fervor and "Poetic rage." 

Some Georgia poet of his, "melon" sings. 

And rant and rhyming o'er the nation rings. 

Some chap that sells his soap upon the street. 

Breaks into verse and does your ear entreat; 

And when you will not list his "soulful" sigh, 

He publishes his paper for your eye. 

Songwriters vile, our wearied nerves assail 

With tawdry melody or dismal wail. 

Those chaps who write, they claim "to please the masses," 

And not (as if they could), "to please the classes"; 

Hence printing presses working overtime 

For maudlin music set to motley rhyme. 



MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 163 

A startling "genius" finds "a tired head" 

Makes rhythmic music with "to bed, to bed!" 

Inspired maidens, and whole college crews, 

And idle ladies, woo the tired Muse. 

Assuming airs that nauseate the wise 

Some empty youngster for distinction tries. 

The time's incompetence is plainly seen 

Upon the pages of each magazine. 

And some "light" furnishes the "latest novel," 

Who should be toiling with a pick and shovel. 

The Navy, onc€ renowned for rippling curses. 

Brings forth a Tar, who writes a "book of verses"; 

Who many a salty inspiration caught 

*Mid strong "head winds," and grievous "list to port." 

No way sequestered and no path secure 

From trash and rubbish' which we must endure. 



Some vain dramatic tinker, tried and true, 

Delights the masses and disgusts the few; 

Oh, why will people their poor rubbish choose, 

Grasp gaudy gilt, and purest gold refuse? 

Now Hamlet speaks his lines to empty stalls. 

While "horse play" packs and jams the bursting walls; 

The audience their wishes emphasize. 

Applaud pollution, and worth "patronize." 

So sorry substance in a gaudy dress 

Is fitted to their mental feebleness. 

But yet be thankful for the goodly few, 

Who bow to merit and give worth its due. 



i64 MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 

Sad shades of Shakespeare, Pope and Thomas Moore! 
Tread their old haunts, and modern dross deplore; 
And wonder when the world will frame a song 
To bear the burden of their strain along. 
Beset by rhymsters, lacking needful pelf, 
Sometime perchance, I'll turn the trick myself; 
Folks looking round to find the one who wrought it 
And finding me, will murmur "who'd a thought it?" 

Ye ancient bards, who set the world ablaze! 
Presumptuous he who writes these simple lays. 
Yet though unworthy in thy mighty view, 
In one respect he beats the best of you; 
No scratching pen for him! nor ink pot mean, 
He writes his poetry on a "Yost" machine. 

Some perverse power and unconscious chance 
Alike on mortals break their wanton lance; 
And wisdom, frequent fool of that same fate, 
That fools with fortune often compensate. 
A language teacher scarcely can exist, 
A "ball" man*s paid a fortune for his "twist." 
Miss Scandalous draws furs around her form, 
While Virtue lacks the rags to keep her warm. 

Oh, Age of Tinsel! Age of strange device! 
Our lamentations and our tears entice; 
For each unmeasured strain bears evidence 
Of soulless precept and of want of sense. 




" Soft eyes— that soothe my soul's unrest." — Page ijj. 



MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 167 

Th€ self same metal, but a different touch, 
To form an axle and to make a watch; 
Yet still we see despite of nature's plan 
Some soulful goal sought by a soulless man. 
And here a "poet," there a man of "letters," 
Attempting what he should leave to his betters. 

Persistent "writers" whom no frown could tame, 

By publishers are passed to fading fame; 

Undaunted stands the "literary" crew, 

And faith, there's nothing left for me and you. 

And 'mid a mass of mediocrity 

Meek talent seeks in vain for sympathy. 

Satiric power it were vain to ask. 

For Momus stands appalled at the great task. 

Persistent poachers in the paths of prose! 
Your thieving aptness every writing shows. 
Vulgar intruders in the realms of rhyme! 
Here's at you all! I know no better time. 
And though I shortly may in vain repent 
This terse and timely admonition lent, 
Yet still my Muse impels the thankless task, 
And when she bids, no respite may I ask. 

I sometimes dream of that sweet, happy age, 
When fools will vanish from this earthly stage; 
When all the world with wisdom will be crowned. 
And right, and love, and beauty will abound; 
When men will cease their panting race for pelf; 
But then — alas! I will be dead myself. 



i68 MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 

But oh, to live in that divineher age 
When man will reap his rightful heritage. 
When Poet's volumes will be bound in gold 
And angel readers all their charms unfold; 
When daily items we will read from Mars, 
And hold wise converse with more distant stars. 
When every soul that comes unto the earth 
Will mark a Prince and not a pauper's birth. 
When each will fill his own appointed place 
And no one seek to foul his neighbor's race. 
But now we murmur at the prospect drear, 
For fools still venture where the angels fear. 

Forbear, oh thou vain man! of little art, 

To voice a song that is not -in thy heart. 

Nor seek to swell some heavenly anthem's chord, 

To which thy puny soul does not accord. 

Nor dare assume the aspect of a saint 

And think to mask thy world deceit and taint, 

Nor in the clammy arms of vice to take 

Fair virtue for thine own, for her sweet sake. 

With touch that knows but shoddy, thou dost tear 

The silken fabric that the Muses wear. 

With rough shod feet, no incense in thy hands. 

Thou seekest temples in enchanted lands. 

Unqualified, ungodly and untaught. 

Still dare to seek the secret soul of thought. 

And sound the depths of beauty's boundless flood 

From out the shallows of a. stream of mud. 

From snare of lies, that knows nor calm, nor ruth, 

Thou would'st assume the shining robe of Truth! 



MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 169 

Fame's beacon lures! thou canst not follow it 
Ashore on shoals of thy poor shallow wit; 
And seeing better pilots pass thee by, 
To foul their passage thou dost vainly try. 
Infernal Envy! oft' we feel his spell, 
That hateful harbinger of horrid hell! 



The Muse's favorites are not thy kind, 

Their gifts not tossed to every careless wind; 

They pass the "pompous," no "purse proud" endow, 

And place their garlands on some modest brow. 

The dainty domain where the Muses dwell, 

Holds Beauty's bower, and fair Wisdom's well; 

And those who seek an entrance there to gain, 

Must walk in modesty and bear no stain. 

The shallow pretense and the petty pride 

Within that wondrous realm cannot abide. 

Presumption there no edifice may rear. 

No din discordant jars the tuneful ear. 

But thou! that can'st the gentle Muse entice. 

Heed well these lines which deck some small advice; 

Advice that's cheap and therefore freely given 

To pave thy way aright, perchance to Heaven. 

Take Wisdom to thy heart and clasp her close, 

Sift through discernment's sieve the dust of dross. 

Be quick to learn from every source some lesson, 

Give goodly thoughts the goodliest expression. 

And be assured, oh, thou aspiring youth. 

To be a poet thou must tell the truth. 



170 MODERN WRITERS AND REVIEWERS. 

Fear thou base flattery as a foul thing, 
Let poetasters to its false words cling; 
To worth it adds not in the least degree, 
To tyros leave it, it is not for thee. 
And good or bad thy lines — the test will show it 
False praise or hate despite; the wise will know it. 
Leave fools to flatt'ry which on folly feeds, 
And fence thy flowers from a world of weeds. 
Nor deem the praise of some corrupted sheet 
That knows naught but the ''wisdom" of the street, 
Availeth aught a Poet's work to laud! 
For gutter garlands are a graceless gaud. 



Before thy service in the Muse's "guards," 

Read "Byron's "Horace," likewise "English Bards;" 

And finding naught to dampen thy ambition — 

A Poet thou! whatever thy condition. 

Far better one than I, who pen this lay 

To rack the follies of my little day, 

Which done, Til wait my ship, that long I've sought, 

My phantom ship afloat on tides of thought. 



* 



MELANCHOLY'S MUSING. i;i 



MELANCHOLY'S MUSING. 



This life may be a gladsome round 

Of love and beauty blended, 

But even in its happiest hour 

We sigh for joys long ended, 

And stop 'mid laughter, song and play, 

To mourn for some dead yesterday. 



Fame's dazzling star serenely shines 
And lures another wooer, 
Yet even as its lustre burns 
The dark begins to lower. 
And many curse their lofty aim 
Who court the fickle star of Fame. 



The light that lights the lover's eye 

Sheds radiance celestial. 

Yet love's pure flame oft' serves to fire 

A lust that's all terrestrial. 

And heavenly pictures lovers paint 

Too oft' are touched with worldly taint. 



172 MELANCHOLY'S MUSING. 

The spring time charms, and fettered feet 

Would fain find fancy's goal, 

But springtime longing in the heart 

Makes sadness in the soul; 

For 'mid life's artificial frost 

We feel its wealth of sunshine lost. 



The peace that friendship still imparts 

Is ours so long the fates are fair. 

But let them frown, then seek the hand 

Late at our side — it is not there! 

For friendship's reared on golden sands. 

And storm waves beat at last all strands. 



But thou sweet Faith, that lights the night 
Of gloom, when souls with grief are torn. 
Thy star's not dim, my aching sight 
Full long thy radiance hath borne. 
Last friend and best! thy feet Hope shod, 
Leave prints that point the path to God. 




LOVE'S ADMIRATION. 173 



LOVE'S ADMIRATION. 



The glow of soul shine in thine eyes 
With angel's might compare, 
For richer than rich summer skies 
The wealth of love light there. 
And thy divinely beauteous brow, 
And form of rarest grace, 
Might match a Seraph's, and endow 
That Seraph's glorious place. 



Bright eyes that beam celestial light 

Like some twin stars of Heaven, 

Pure as the stream from snowy height 

That knows no earthy leaven. 

Soft eyes — that soothe my soul's unrest 

With pledge of Paradise, 

Beneath their beams I'm wondrous blest, 

Their love light doth suffice. 



174 LOVE'S ADMIRATION. 

Thy voice is like sweet music rare 
That breaks o'er scenes enchanted, 
Thy tenderness Hke morn's fresh air 
To prisoned pilgrims granted. 
Thou art as some half opened rose, 
That nods the day farewell, 
The witchery thy charms disclose, 
I feel, but cannot tell. 



There's rapture in thy pensive eye. 
There's music in thy laughter; 
There's Heaven in thy sympathy, 
And sigh that follows after. 
All fret beneath thy glance is stilled, 
Thy ''Cupid's bow" is token 
Of promises all unfulfilled. 
And yet withal — unbroken. 



Then let me guide. thy steps, sweet love 

Along life's rugged way, 

And ne'er a pilot false I'll prove 

To lead such feet astray. 

I'll lift thee o'er the ills of life, 

And, deem the burden blest. 

If thou wilt be mine own sweet wife — 

My loved and life-long guest. 



THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 175 

THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 

Dedicated to a Bard in Black and His Book. 

A Ballad. 



Of Ephraim and his idols, 

Of those who always "ape"; 

Of him who stormed the Muse's fane, 

(I tell it 'mid my tears and pain) 

And there committed rape. 



'Mid classic glens of Greensboro 

In the famous Old North State, 

Way "down home" in that tar heel town, 

Was reared a youth of wide renown. 

And learning deep and great. 



So sing, O Muse! of E-phra-im, 
Of Ephraim Mc.Girt, 
Who boldly scaled Parnassus Hill 
And laid its sentries cold and still. 
Upon their native dirt. 



176 THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 

For "Ephum" is a "poet" rare, 
Of color, depth and vigor; 
And it's a black plume in his hat 
When to the world it's known that 
Our "Ephum" is a nigger. 



And if there is distinction 

In last as well as first. 

He's gained the rhymster's crown of fame. 

And made himself an envied name. 

By being the very worst. 



With dreams of fame and lordly state, 
The Muse his odalisque; 
He sought Erato's marble hall. 
And with his Senegambian gall 
Did that which few would risk. 



"Fair maid, I've come to woo and win, 

I waive all 'race objection'; 

For if I'm not as white as snow. 

The blame's not mine I'd have you know. 

The fault is my complexion. 



THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 177 

"Nay! frown not on my dusky skin, 
For ril not be abused Miss! 
On Poet's wiles you shed your smiles, 
I've fought my way o'er guarded stiles, 
And rU not be refused Miss!" 



In vain her fair face flushed with shame, 
In vain she called down curses; 
Like others who have shamed his race 
This ''coon" defiled that sacred place. 
And fathered mongrel verses. 



Wherefore, O Byron, stand aside, 
And Burns go hide your head; 
For Lo! comes Ephraim Mc.Girt, 
With sabre, gun, and bloody shirt. 
To make you glad you're dead. 



And Poe, and Moore and Milton, too, 

'Tis well you all have died; 

For had you lived until this hour 

And saw this "moke" in Musedom's bower. 

You'd rush to suicide. 



178 THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 

For you'd dread the times a coming 
Born of "philanthropic" schools, 
When "coons" will all be "literary," 
And wenches wise, and "airy fairy" 
And the "white folks" driving mules. 



But "Ephum" more in sorrow 

Than in anger do I say, 

That you have writ the rankest rhymes, 

Of modern or of ancient times 

By long odds and away. 



For we judge your verses, Ephraim 
Without envy, hate or spleen, 
To be the vilest verses — 
The most ungodly verses — 
That the world has ever seen. 



Perhaps, as you say, my "Ephum," 
'Tis not your fault indeed. 
But while your gall is most superb, 
We grieve to think you did not curb 
Your wild Parnassian steed. 



THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 179 

For the beggar's gone and bolted clean, 
Against all reins and rules, 
And dashed you out on Funny Street, 
And kicked you into Dolt's Retreat, 
In the Paradise of Fools. 



And there's no resurrection 
From that place you've reached at last, 
For if you venture out you'll find 
The frigid face, and words unkind, 
And the critic's cruel blast. 



Yet not alone for you Mc.Giit, 
This long descant of mine; 
ril feel my trouble well repaid 
If kept some boot black at his trade, 
Some laundress at her line. 



And this is why I step between 

Poor Ephraim and his gods, 

For half the country's population 

Could write as well with slight temptation, 

Then who would tote our hods? 



i8o THE RAPE OF THE MUSE. 

But be not scared my "Ephum," 
For you no rope's in store; 
For though you tore the dainty Muse, 
And did her pleading cries refuse, 
She's not known in the law. 



'Tis not your color Ephraim, 
That prompts our scorn, we vow, 
But we refuse with righteous frown 
To place the Poet's stately crown 
Upon a buffoon's brow. 

We yield full praise to merit. 
Give worth its honest due. 
But the raw and ranting rhymster. 
The dreary **darkey" rhymster, 
Makes us both mad and blue. 

Scarce challenged now the rampant "coon' 

Doth ape and mock the nation; 

But when he claims to be a "poet" 

By Heavens above! he'll have to show it 

Or stay in Coondom's station. 

Now some may say to spite I lean, 
And judge my lay a — lie; 
But books are food for critics keen. 
So E-phra-im must take I ween 
His dose, as well as I. 



THE MARRIAGE OF HUNGER AND THIRST. i8i 



THE MARRIAGE OF HUNGER AND THIRST. 



When Hell's adventurous Chief set forth 

On the journey that ended here, 

There followed right after 

With hideous laughter, 

Fell fiends their standards to rear. 

And many the monsters new scenes to imbibe, 

That traversed the track of this terrible tribe. 



And Madness and Torment, Poverty, Wealth, 

Were loosed o'er the shivering earth; 

And a house warming revel 

Was held by the Devil; 

And Rapine and Havoc had birth. 

And Death turned the furrows, and Sin sowed the wind. 

And planted the plagues that have poisoned mankind. 

The hell hound named Hunger took Thirst by the hand, 

And whispered these words in her ear, 

*T think if we'd marry 

No mortal could parry 

The thrust of our pain tempered spear." 

And so came the marriage by men ever curst. 

The maledict marriage of Hunger and Thirst. 



i82 THE MARRIAGE OF HUNGER AND THIRST. 

This withering pair breathed a blight on the air, 

And manifold multitudes paled: 

And Death, the grim reaper, 

Recked not of the weeper, 

Or the cowering wretches that quailed; 

Nor heeded the wail of their "unpardoned sin," 

But grimly, right grimly — he gathered them in. 

And Hunger and Thirst racked body and soul. 

And Pain and Disease lent a hand; 

These furies well mated 

Were never yet sated. 

Though gorged with the best of the land. 

And finding mankind not enough for their feast, 

They seized on the insect, the bird and the beast. 

But brief is their revel, thank God comes the day 

When back to Hell's pit they'll be hurled! 

And Satan, King sinner. 

Will not be the winner 

When Judgment morn breaks on the world. 

His hell hosts shall shrink at the Archangel's sword, 

And wither and perish at "glance of the Lord!" 

Appalled they will perish at "glance of the Lord!" 




DOMINUS VOBISCUM.. 183 



DOMINUS VOBISCUM. 

Pilgrims of morning, pilgrims of night, 
Under the stars and the sun; 
Chasing vain phantoms or seeking the light, 
Soon, soon may thy journey be done. 
Seek Him like the seers who followed the star, 
Dominus Vobiscum! 
Au revoir. 



"God be with you 'till we meet again," 
Yea, even though 'tween us may fall 
The silence deep. No brand of Cain 
Be ours to proffer at His call. 
Not ours the cause of truth to mar, 
Dominus Vobiscum! 
Au revoir. 



Coming and going, so strangely we meet, 
To act and re-act on our kind; 
On desolate highway or populous street, 
Restless we pass, like the wind. 
To you! fellow pilgrim, near or afar, 
Dominus Vobiscum! 
Au revoir. 



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